If my forefathers were slaves
Then who the heck am I.
To allow my integrity
Not to favorably reach the sky.
I've acheived so much
Even since Civil Rights.
But why do I worry
Over little things at night.
The bills, the economy
The society eroding with sin.
My destiny, my culture
I've searched to no end.
This ers'a voice of slavery
Makes it look like your free.
But it disguises itself
Mocking freedom ambiguously.
Sneaking, mentally disturbing you
Emotionally and even financially.
It robs you of your focus
Dimming your vision psychologically.
Obligated by commitment
Enthralled by its illusions.
Not enough time resting
Baffled by progress and confusion.
My life is in God's hands
Its back to Him we must go.
For He's our only help
He's the only truth we know.
Slavery may not mean freedom
But to be enslaved is the sin.
Its really about your character
And how you live from within.
Cecelia Weir's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Slavery Enslaved by Cecelia Weir )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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