Haven't posted in a while, mostly due to an overload in school work. This poem (yes it's a poem, prose poem to be exact) still needs some work, but I feel confident enough to post it now. It'll be a little difficult to read due to some liberties with spelling and word choice. With a little work you should get it though.

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"Jasmine!" She don't answer. She (w)rites and (w)rites and (w)rites, lost in mem'ries and anger and ev'rything that drives her. She (w)rites poorly and weakly, ain't got a wit of sense in her style. No punctuation, no spelling, nuttin'. She calls it "revolution." Fighting the man while she recla(i)m(s) what he stole, what she think(s) he stole. (It's been) Fo(u)r years now, since she called herself Anele – Enough. Three since she sh(a)ved her he(a)d. Five since she decyded to recla(i)m what wuz lost by shunning the whyte man's world.

Anele, is illiteracy Afryca?

"Jasmine!" She don't answer. She got dayk skin: obsydian, starl(e)ss ni(gh)t. It(')s an x-cuse to her to be angry and ign'ant. U h(u)rt me, she think(s), u pick me up. Bein(g) beaten('s) an x-cuse for weak-ness. Never one for gro(w)th. It(')s a new cul-tur(e), vo-la-tile and de-strucktiv(e), self-deh-precatyng and yous-less. U broke me, u pick me up.

Anele, is given up Afryka?

"Jasmine!" She don't answer. That('s) her slave name and she ain(')t nobodies nigger. Though it(')s what her parents gave her, though it(')s what her grandparents wanted the right to give. "We's still batter'd and beaten and discriminate'd" she says. But ain(')t u given' them a re(a)son? Hatin' them and cryin,' (w)ritin' from hatred and not to heal, blamin' one when t(w)o are at fa(u)lt. Flawed dygnity, un-earnerd pryde.

Anele, is there no honor in Afryca?

"Jasmine!" She don't answer, scr(a)tching Afryca into her skyn. She feels the drum beat, Beat, BEATIN' in her veyns. The w(i)ld, ferayl calls, clawin' from her throat, to her lips, thr(ough). Past that obsydian skin, past them illyterate, slave-colored hands. She thinks she is Afryca, baldin' softly into the ni(gh)t – she knows that she is Afryca, hiding out loud, screamin' in pla(i)n si(gh)te. They will know her, her anger, her pain, her suicidal cries for re-dymp-sion and re-disc-cover-ie, and disappointment(s) destroy'd. She will cla(i)m it in her skyn, off the top of her bare head. She will cla(i)m the motherland, rypped from her fragile fingers b-4 she was even a fetus, torn from the cay-dance of her voice b-4 even her great-grandparents had a choice, torn up and beaten and bruised and beaten and st(o)len and she wants it back. Give it to her, she says. Give her back her self-respect and her self-love, her self-worth and her self-truth.

Beautiful words, my child, beautiful words.

"Anele!" (Enough) and she answers…

"What you want nigga!"

Self-respect? Yeah. "The man" may have stole it, but why you lettin' him keep it?