I’ve imagined killing myself.
It’d be easier.
You know, sorta biting the bullet?
Blowing them a kiss before they shatter my grin,
Can you see it?
Course then, I couldn’t have an open casket funeral
And that’s just plain unAmerican.
My father couldn’t come, my mother wouldn’t allow it,
And my sisters are all uninvited,
Because when black boys bloom we turn blue,
And no one should have to see that
But there’s a bullet for every name,
A ****** for every cop,
And the block is too hot to handle.
I have only ever known freedom as a figment of another nation;
A sensation I’ll never live to feel.
Truth be told,
I’ve already heard what you have planned for my eulogy.
I just knew if I kept listening eventually I’d catch you slipping,
Whispering at crowded tabletops.
As far as I’m concerned,
There are no good cops.
If there were such a thing,
They’d be protesting,
Instead of celebrating the life and times of another dindu nuthin with nothing on em but a degree.