Who Willie Lynched your mentality?
Who put you under a spell?
Why you let them teleport you back to slavery?
They could have at least made it look good
didn’t have to hang you on the block
in your own hood
from your own trees
could have bridged the gap
between the souls you “sold” for rap
could have at least duct taped pieces of the truth
so you didn’t look like the signs of the times
didn’t have to trade your crown
for nursery rhymes
spill your blood on the ground
like wasted time
look how intoxicated you are
don’t know the difference between what truth and being real is
Is we being real?
There’s a reason that last line ain’t grammatically correct
gotta spit truth a lot truthful than that
since when did speaking the Kings English
ever define being black?
since when did we become something called Black?
what is that?
if you gonna spit truth
you gotta come much harder than that
and much deeper than black
you see even your conscious rappers
ain’t wrapped tight enough
can’t baptize deception in muddy waters and call it clean
can’t metaphysical the spiritual
and call it revolutionizing the struggle
can’t call it consciousness if you still sleeping
but rebellion the only thing around here get played
and you the only people around here being played
why I still hear rappers remixing they own graves?
who put yall under a spell?
don’t know why prison statistics don’t start with the prisons
outside of jails
but then again
I guess we can’t all spit truth
the records will never sell
Category: Poetry
We Trust
Born into the ticking clock of innocence
a hurrying forth of second hands
to match the inhale and exhale of lung
we sing truth against the fragile voice of newness
and taste of the refreshing sound of belief
Trust
it is the automatic gift life births us with
against the cold relentless winds of the skies
of experience
of living
we lose sight of this gift like we age
the only circumstance in which increasing numbers
is representative of loss
a slippery lyric of experience snatching away
our inherent decision to bend
a revelation sung to the instrumentals
of life
not as gentle
not as soft
not as giving as naiveté in childhood
we learn not the automatic taste
of confidence
but the wisdom of serpents
to discern the shady tongues
the coated lips of deceit
against the cold relentless winds of life
of experience
that teaches
that we cannot trust every breathing entity
for these winds are not so trustworthy any longer
for they have grown old
and have known lies
these lungs do not sing the song of genuine
for that we trust now like serpents
and wrap ourselves
inside the delicateness of the dove
I Wonder
I wonder what would happen
if I threw my pen into yesterday
let it scribble up the past
and teleport those memories
to the edge of my fingertips
If I splashed this page with infinity
so that you remember forever
where you came from.
Or what if I just thought about it
wirelessly sent messages across dimensions
bringing back roots
and read your thoughts before they reached you
replace futility with the integrity of substance
create worlds out of nothing
create soldiers out of nobody’s
a ghetto child that’s restored to his place as a King
I wonder
If I could.
Would you let me
transcribe history
staple its pages to the roof of your mouth
let your tongue unfold like ancient scrolls
saliva running like living water
and dripping like liquid foundation
stand in the backyard of Eden
and hide no longer between rocks and hard places
find your place here
inside the body of this pen
along the lines of this page
I give you permission to bleed
all the crazy reasons why
you matter.
Mama Put a Curse on Me, by Stella May
Mama put a curse on me
When she gave me that name
Attaching history to my skin
When she knew it had stains on it
Though her eyes were green
She acted like her skin was brown
And teleported her daughter back to slavery
What kind of name is Stella anyway?
It don’t hardly go with my skin
And mama’s either.
But she tryna be something she ain’t
And I’m just tryna be something I am
You see, there’s a stigma that comes
With the color of history
Being white
And yet being colored
Race wars always concerned these two groups of people
and there ain’t seemed to be much room for a mulatto
So you see
Mama put a curse on me
When she named me Stella
After my great-grandmother
A slave on Paul Saddlers plantation
And his daughter too
So as to escape slavery
I think I’ll just opt out this race
And considers myself white
Maybe even change my name
And pitch my tent somewhere
Beyond the Colored Line
Those Who Love
It’s their presence alone that
lifts the floor and
commands the clouds to unclench their fist
cause
love wraps its garment around
their bodies
like insane prisoners to compassion
confined and restricted
to the affection that binds them
stitched and knitted
like a fresh garment,
like fresh skin
to the beautiful body of genuine
call them
the mentally insane cause
they got to be crazy
to be binding themselves like this
This Hair Will Not Apologize
You can reason all the reasons
Why I embraced the nap
Call it kinky crap like kitchen naps
Cause it no longer snaps, crackles, and pops
There are no more cracking chemicals back there
But Kings fight private battles here
There are wars taking place here
There is strength here
There is healing here
water proof and tied and died and stuck up
This is the only place to be stuck up
To be Israel
To be Egypt
To be Africa
To be Nation
We are nation here
This is covering
There are warriors prepared for battle inside these naps
queens imbedded within the cords of this scalp
the ropes in this scalp
there are ropes here
No more laughing firecrackers to crack open the coils of these bonds
There are bonds here
Long lasting and dedicated bonds here
Battle Axes live here
A bundle of twigs
Not easily broken
this hair will not apologize
so there are no sorry’s here
Her Song
Her fingers girdle themselves
around the microphone
like blessings wrapped in silk
prepared to sing poetic melodies
in front an audience too deaf to hear the angels
playing on the strings of her vocal cords
to witness the flapping of wings against their skin
too blind to see the messages dancing on her collar bone
but she sings still
and smells too much like happiness to be broken
The PBS Blog 