-blood sea-

my wrists are heavy from the cuffs of my oppressors

-deppressors-

i rip my hair out

because they're my stressors

see, I

never believed the lies of system

light chrisom

hands up high cuz

i’m the victim

see, hear

the last words i said to mama

the drama

i tried to protect her fears

with black karma

NO

see, see, see

what your black boy has become

i run

whenever the damage has been done

-blood sea-

see, see, see

what your black boy has led

i bled

when trayvon martin ended up dead

-blood sea-

the lights shine bright, red, white and blue

---- YOU

your life doesn’t matter, unless i say

it’s true

why didn’t he beg for mercy?

how dare he?

to ever test my white integrity

i looked into your large brown eyes

demise

could see right through that

black disguise

NO!

see, see, see

what they made me do?

it’s true

i pointed my gun right at you

-blood sea-

see, see, see

how it made me feel

it’s real

killing black boys was never apart of the deal

-blood sea-

Institutionalized….blood sea blinding my eyes

Counting the days go by…...3…..2…...1

1 bullet through the homie

I’m locked up for the homie

I still don’t know who shot my homie

But my homies said take 1 for the team

1,2,3…..4 more years left.

-black boy-

black boy pride

black boy fly

black boy why…

do you seem

to be

within me

in the trees

in the seams

in my dreams

community hides

a black boy strives

to stay alive

to sixteen

to be

within me

in the trees

in the seams

in my dreams

-how to be an intellectual-

Intellectual minds

Freed from spirit.

Not collecting all

Of its power.

Educating themselves

With their own experiences.

Intellectual minds

Freed from spirit.

-our faces-

The look on your face

When i tell you of my history

When i tell you of my feelings

When i tell you that i wanted something

Unquestionable

The bond of strength and danger and love that couldn't be created from the idiocies of

teenage angst

The look on my face

When you tell me of your history

When you tell me of your feelings

When you tell me that you aren’t prepared for

a battle of strength and danger and love that could destroy the illusion of delusion

That you aren’t prepared to leave your cocoon.  

To leave your skin lying next to mine,

clothing ourselves together.

The look on your face

When i tell you of my history

When i tell you of my feelings

When i tell you that i’ll leave without

you because that shackles that have

bound me to an unsteady foundation drives me crazy….

The realization that i can’t succumb to the lows of society with a

smile

and a kiss on your cheek

as i cater to your every need gracefully

endlessly

carelessly.

The look on my face

When you tell me of your history

When you tell me of your feelings

When you wrap me in your arms and

whisper taunts and teases in my ears,

trying to chain me to a life where you will prosper and i will have to watch from the sidelines,

through domesticated windows.

and they will laugh at the look on my face.

-moonrise & sunshine-

moonrise

sunshine

he lies, she lies

closed eyes, for the baptize

moonrise

sunshine

i know

that i won’t

be alone

when the storm blows

-strange fruit-

The pigment of my skin,

the melanin in my blood,

the plump of my lips and my country’s oppressive yet incorruptible perception of me,

every ounce of me,

every word from my mouth and shuffle of my feet:

I AM STRANGE.

But how strange?

To be marginalized within the black community as a minority,

indoctrinated at a young age, believing that I was born to be inferior.

To be strange,

to trust my oppressors and accept that my inferiority is normal.

But isn’t it strange?

Throughout my life I am taught that these oppressive perceptions of me are fact,

and I am to live up to them without protest,

that my skin defines my potential, my successful capacity

and my life satisfaction.

But isn’t that strange?

I carry the weight of my ancestors on my shoulders,

their tears and their struggle,

Their impending prayers to God asking, “Why lord! Why did I have to be

strange? In the eyes of my master I am nothing but strange! Why did

my children have to be strange! And what does that give me, nothing

but pain!”

No answer, no mercy as the shackles of slavery tightened

them to a world where they are nothing but a black body with no

worth.

A black body with no worth.

No one told them it was okay to be strange.

To destroy the label society has given to you, to live up to your repressed potential,

to fly higher than those who only dreamt of

touching a cloud.

To be strange, is to be human. To be strange, is to be human.

And I guess I'm strange.

Because I want to be human.