"The American Black Farmers' project | ph. John Francis Ficara
Just Mercy,
The sound of a dying person,
The judge has passed her verdict,
I found in her judgment,
No Mercy,
A rooted crime I call arson,
For a black man’s rioted lessons.
Just Mercy,
I pleaded for my life,
They came with no Mercy,
I was raped countlessly,
With marks on their faces.
My body soared, torned,
And I crumbled,
I cried for days, weeks, months,
The mark didn’t left me,
My thoughts is glued,
I’m fuelled,
As I found my Safe Haven.
Just Mercy,
The street is hard,
Things are hard,
Drugs, coicain,
Something at all to get high.
I’m lost,
My world is gone,
I’m living by grace
Don’t ask me.
My days are numbered,
My life, to those gangs, I humbled,
I’m breathing on their Mercy.
Just Mercy,
Food, anything I can eat,
Please help me.
I am hungry,
I am angry,
Little of this to eat.
Little, will go a long way,
Please help me.
I am sick also,
Not cancer,
But fever,
The cold,
The heat with no food,
To hold on.
Just Mercy all that I plead for.
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