What you thinking… I was in this for the pimping?
My people been dressed in fine shackles with rusted ruby blots ever since the beginning.
Women slowly thinning,
Dying from the seed of Caucasian defection,
There’s no spray for rape… No Lysol disinfections.
Sold to an opposite people by their own reflection.
So in the dearest sense it’s Black history all year I could give a fuck less about a re-election.
In need of Harajuku Barbie socks to bandaid all the blood stains.
Sure the World’s seen her share of pain.
Every race known to man been made a slave in the game.
“Niggas” say they got it hard…
But they keep shovels in hand, working hard; digging their own graves.
It’s truly not about black and white but sickeningly deeper.
Just don’t tell me there’s no more racism when I greet white people here in the south receiving the cold reception of no responses… How am I my brother’s keeper?
And on Sunday, some say amen, singing hymns while praying the hills I climbed to this pseudo-equality only become STEEPER.
It’s true. It’s black history for me everyday, is true.
I’m just trying to say Martin had a dream; I have one TWO…
I don’t know what it’s like to be told to move to the back,
Or the taken aback of watching crosses burn,
The stench of recapture camps; fresh flesh [crackle, pop and snap]
Single file prod and brand lines…
But I was passed the task of being aware of Dr. King’s words and so I share these with you:
“I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering.“