A curious ache, a question in the air, Why built for us, this platform we don't share? Blaqsbi, a space, for every hue of Black, A digital homeland, no turning back.

Yet slow we come, with hesitant, wary tread, To ground designed where our own voices spread. While other halls, of former masters built, By hands that bound, and blood unjustly spilt, Still draw us in, with comfort and with ease, Ignoring history's uncomfortable breeze.

They plundered lands, and souls, and dignity, Still, on their stages, we dance for all to see. We share our thoughts, our laughter, and our pain, On sites where profit fuels a different reign. Their algorithms learn, their pockets swell, From clicks and scrolls, a story they compel.

A paradox, a truth we must confront, Why chase the crumbs, when feasts are at the front? Is it habit's grip, or trust that's hard to mend, To truly see a platform as a friend? A mirror held, reflecting what we've faced, A unity proposed, a path to be embraced.

The seeds are sown, the vision clear and bold, A space for us, a story to unfold. But freedom's call, sometimes a silent plea, To choose our own, aon the platform known as and we call Blaqsbi.