Heart Medical Health from Pixabay

Blood of My Blood — Flesh of My Flesh

Greg Prince
3 min readMar 7, 2019


That awesome red sticky stuff running through our veins.

The juice of everything we be doesn’t even know our names.

Yes, the goop tells us women or man but it might take our noodle a while to understand. So concerning is the issue too many accept and commit to separate because of shade, a belief, or how much bacon is kept and spent.

When the ink in our body’s highways is near all the same can’t we all find a way to walk hand in hand.

True we work and deserve to reap.

But how much do we need to pile up on the heap?

I’m entitled to nothing but death and so are you so please don’t scoff because we don’t wear the same status shoes.

Might be a day to come when all are seen good enough to be who they be without a government pretending to grant rights in a tangled sea.

Current thoughts of freedom wrapped up in farce. Fake laws of bondage equal us as chattel telling us we’re free but this idea must be parsed.

Like sheep, we walk in comas of never-ending rules and licenses to justify who we be yet the bandage must rip off so hearts can learn and see.

Photo by John Jackson on Unsplash

That awesome red sticky stuff coursing through our veins.

So if you bleed and the color isn’t green you might just be quite a bit through and through almost the same as the person grown up 3000 miles away. Otherwise, you may be from Venus or perhaps Mars. Who can say?

Let’s all rise up and claim the right of our blood not given by a document or a government thug.

Insist on whom we are born to be, souls of love in a freaky, messy people sea.

Don’t want no leader telling me how.
Don’t want no divider making me bow.
Don’t need no ruler given me hate.
Don’t need no fake king decreeing my fate.
Can you hear?
What the voices are making clear?
The world ain’t working the way it is.
So many crying blood-soaked tears.
While we go on singing our song a struggle to pay our bills;
the day is long.
Ain’t no white horse coming along,



Greg Prince

Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.