Jul 2014
I'm finding myself with writers block because all I seem to find inspiration in is the color of my skin
Or being black to be exact
Or what it's like to be young and African American and in this great country
I become frustrated that this is what I write about it
this is what I feel the need to speak on
that this is what my soul is finding refuge to release
Sometimes I think I'm getting repetitive but I'm realizing if young unjust black deaths didn't happen so often maybe I wouldn't have to write about them
maybe if my young unarmed black brothers weren't murdered in vain
maybe if I heard black praise more than blacks blazed
maybe if less mothers didn't have to to bury their sons
Then and only maybe then would I be able to write about something different, maybe then would I sleep at night, but probably not
Because whether racism is forward or passive it's still closer than you think
the amount of melanin in my skin is slim but it still runs deep
and because I'm mixed people like to think I'm being over dramatic or I'm making it up because
"I'm only half black so why would I get any back lash"
but it's not about that
full or half
To white people I'm still black
And to some people it's alarming that I have a dad
Yellow or brown
African blood still runs through my veins, I feel my queens weep
when the white girl in the suburban locks her doors when I cross the street
when black men say they would never date a black woman because she is loud and indiscreet
when four black boys in a Cobalt going the speed limit are pulled over and policed
one time I overheard someone say "it's time to get over slavery I mean I would own one too for what it's worth"
This **** is the reason why I lose sleep
like every night this week
sometimes I feel my queens' tears down my cheek
she screams
as she is being penetrated by the patrol as her husband and children see
"just so you know whose in charge" he whispers as she weeps
and we should "get over it"
whipped and *****, beaten and dehumanized
3 centuries and they act like it was 3 days
And they like to say that so much has changed
just because we're not in chains
Yet we're restricted or ridiculed politically, socially and economically
we are
Emmet Till still
On our road to progression
A brown president and we are still considered an infection
We are still the threat
And they have disregarded their debt
This is the blissful ignorance I live with
And the growing terror my words attempt to change
Or being black to be exact
Or what it's like to be young and African American and in this great country
I become frustrated that this is what I write about it
this is what I feel the need to speak on
that this is what my soul is finding refuge to release
Sometimes I think I'm getting repetitive but I'm realizing if young unjust black deaths didn't happen so often maybe I wouldn't have to write about them
maybe if my young unarmed black brothers weren't murdered in vain
maybe if I heard black praise more than blacks blazed
maybe if less mothers didn't have to to bury their sons
Then and only maybe then would I be able to write about something different, maybe then would I sleep at night, but probably not
Because whether racism is forward or passive it's still closer than you think
the amount of melanin in my skin is slim but it still runs deep
and because I'm mixed people like to think I'm being over dramatic or I'm making it up because
"I'm only half black so why would I get any back lash"
but it's not about that
full or half
To white people I'm still black
And to some people it's alarming that I have a dad
Yellow or brown
African blood still runs through my veins, I feel my queens weep
when the white girl in the suburban locks her doors when I cross the street
when black men say they would never date a black woman because she is loud and indiscreet
when four black boys in a Cobalt going the speed limit are pulled over and policed
one time I overheard someone say "it's time to get over slavery I mean I would own one too for what it's worth"
This **** is the reason why I lose sleep
like every night this week
sometimes I feel my queens' tears down my cheek
she screams
as she is being penetrated by the patrol as her husband and children see
"just so you know whose in charge" he whispers as she weeps
and we should "get over it"
whipped and *****, beaten and dehumanized
3 centuries and they act like it was 3 days
And they like to say that so much has changed
just because we're not in chains
Yet we're restricted or ridiculed politically, socially and economically
we are
Emmet Till still
On our road to progression
A brown president and we are still considered an infection
We are still the threat
And they have disregarded their debt
This is the blissful ignorance I live with
And the growing terror my words attempt to change
