Conditons XXI

Conditions XXI by Khari D. Hawke You judge a woman  by the length of her skirt,  by the way she walks,  talks, looks, and acts;  by the color of her skin you judge  and will call her "bitch!"  "Black bitch!"  if she doesn't answer your:  "Hey baby, whatcha gonna say  to a man."  You judge a woman  by the job she holds,  by the number of children she's had,  by the number of digits on her check;  by the many men she may have lain with  and wonder what jive murphy  you'll run on her this time.  You tell a woman  every poetic love line  you can think of,  then like the desperate needle  of a strung out junkie  you plunge into her veins,  travel wild through her blood,  confuse her mind, make her hate  and be cold to the men to come,  destroying the thread of calm  she held.  You judge a woman  by what she can do for you alone  but there's no need  for slaves to have slaves.  You judge a woman  by impressions you think you've made.  Ask and she gives,  take without asking,  beat on her and she'll obey,  throw her name up and down the streets  like some loose whistle --  knowing her neighbors will talk.  Her friends will chew her name.  Her family's blood will run loose  like a broken creek.  And when you're gone,  a woman is left  healing her wounds alone.  But we so called men,  we so called brothers  wonder why it's so hard  to love our women  when we're about loving them  the way america  loves us.