WHAT IS WRONG WITH BEING BLACK

I wrote this poem in 2015 when the deep south started their racist stuffs again. It goes like this;

Life is a strange place
To form the strangers pact
For to live and die
Many questions of life
Many worries of life
Than to go about asking
Why some people are black

Why the whites are white
Is not the black man's business
We may be black
But they are not white
Only not as black as we are

Nobody chooses their destiny
And nobody chooses their race
And with our eyes
We both see black and white monkeys
If we are black
And we see nothing wrong in being black
Why should you see something
Wrong in being black
Once in a while
We all ponder
What is wrong with being black.

The Good Old Days

The good old days

When the sun was rising in the east

And setting in the west

When the children didn't want to grow up

Not for fear of the morrow

But for the sweet times

The good old days

After the end of the bad old days

And followed by the bad days

Of continual despair 

And cyclic melodrama

They that knew the good old days

Only believed it

Those that only know the bad days

Think it was a mirage

Whether the better days will come or not

Does not reside in the old

Only if the young will grow.