My Country Tis of Thee,
Sweet land of liberty-
Or so we sing.

Land where my fathers died-
But my forefathers died in a battle
Trying to keep their slaves;
My fathers killed your fathers
For trying to run away;
My fathers **** your fathers
Cause it's late at  night, and
He's reaching for his gun-no, wait,
His ID?

Land of the pilgrim's pride-
But so often we leave out of history
How if it weren't for a Native American,
The pilgrims would've died.

From every mountainside-
Like Stone Mountain in Georgia,
Where Rebel Generals are memorialized,
Where the **** was revived-
God, help me, I can't hear freedom's ring;
I can only hear white-washed history.

From every mountainside-
But these days, the mountain is in my chest,
And liberty's ring sounds a lot different,
And a lot of folks don't like it.

Let freedom ring-
And I want to fight for freedom for all-
#BlackLivesMatter-
I want to help-
HANDS UP, DON'T SHOOT!
But-
I
Can't
Breathe.

Let freedom ring!-
But peaceful protests turn into
Bloodbaths as those who have sworn
To serve and protect are sniped down.

Let freedom ring!-
I try to educate myself
On the side of history not taught-
I've always felt that Nat Turner was the bad guy,
But these days I'm questioning it.
I read "The Meaning of Fourth of July for the *****"
by Frederick Douglass
And I read "Bury Me in a Free Land"
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
and I read "Sympathy"
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
and I read "Letters from Birmingham Jail",
"The Mountaintop Speech", and
"I Have a Dream"  
by Dr. King.

When I was younger,
I'd research Dr. King & his colleagues
For fun.
I'd  wonder, "If I lived in the Civil Rights era,
What would I have done?"

But when I turned seventeen,
I realized, "I live in a Civil Rights era;
What am I going to do?

The blood always runs red
Skin color makes no difference;
Why do you feel no regret
When your bullet sets the sentence?

I can't feel their grief,
I can't taste the fear,
But watching this repeat-
No ******* relief-
I can hear this endless ringing
Deep in my ears.

How can you not?
At least 136 souls dispersed
Among the dark beyond;
Their light turned off
Forever.

But even after, you turn both eyes blind
Unless you're looking for reasons
For how it was their fault they died.
Now is the season for revolution-
Not homicide.

Race-baiting covers for agit-prop agents
splitting white hairs in their dark distress;
with name-calling, bullying, lunch money payments
and shifting the blame for their people’s mess.

Reparations are due for your boring screed
that you scrawled at the helm of the Black Star Liner.
You owe it to those who were forced to read
your obtuse agitations (you Afro-whiner).

Poisonous shout-outs to fallen comrades:
holy Saint Michael in reaper’s hood—
endless blathering racial tirades
poor comrade—your dreams are misunderstood.

You’re obsessed with injustice. That’s nothing new.
You’re a David anointed to overthrow Saul—
(as long as he’s white and less rabid than you,
oh prophet and scribe of the activist call…)

Stay mad at the system. Revile all your foes
with raving, with preaching, with bitter bad words.
Insult all your enemies; list all your woes
as you document stink on your turds.

Do good.
Fight for what you believe in.
Don’t back down,
don’t turn around,
don’t hit the ground,
stick it out.
Question everything you think you know.
Find a cause.
Do your part to fix our flaws.

Humanity is the new trend,
the social structure was in a bend.
We don’t mean to offend
the rich, white men
telling us to make America great again.
What do you mean “again”?
It wasn’t even great back then.
What did you have then that we don’t have now?
Rampant racism and sexism?
The Brady Bunch?

Sure, we’re not perfect.
Our phones have grown into our hands,
and although we could say hello
from miles away,
we can’t see the people
right in front of us.

Boys grow anxious
when the person they hope for
doesn’t like their picture,
and girls would rather
indirect someone on Twitter
than call them out
face-to-face.
And we know throwing insults is always easier
from behind a screen.
What’s holding us back
when we can’t see the face of the person
whose day we just ruined?

We don't work, we just get bored.
We crave entertainment and fun.
It's all we ever need.
Not production,
or education,
Or the satisfaction of a job well done.
9 to 5 means nothing to us.

But even if we’re not necessarily a generation of workers,
we’re a generation of fighters.
For whatever you feel,
whatever you believe,
choose your path.
Follow what is right.
Lead with your heart
and never lose sight.

Whether it be of
the toxic gasses,
the lower classes,
or the shootings in holy masses,
never give up on your goal.
You are a part of this world for a reason.
Change it for the better.

Feel good.
Dance like nobody's there.
Sing like you don't care.
Because you deserve a good time.
Life is short,
so love with
all your being.

We’ll embrace you.
It doesn’t matter
what you like,
where you’re from,
who you are,
or what you’ve done.
It’s all good in the hood.
Acceptance is the name of the game for us.
We’re not quite there yet,
but on the path towards love,
we'd call it step one.

Don’t live to please anyone,
fill expectations,
or be someone you’re not.
Do what you enjoy most,
whether it be
smoking dried leaves,
drinking the ghost of fruit and vegetable’s past,
or earning queens in a game of chess.

We are the generation that reveals
the drastic change in society’s ideals.
We're here to seal
our new deal
that what's most important
is the way you feel.

We're prone to anxiety
because of an education that has become
more about grades than learning
and body standards that are rising
higher than heaven.
Got low levels of serotonin?
You’re not alone in this.

Don't let anyone tell you
that your feelings aren't valid
because there are children starving in Africa
or because life was harder "back in the day".

Everyone fights their own fight,
and not one person has the right
to tell you yours is false.
Keep in mind everyone else,
but remember to
love yourself.

☺☻╬☻

Finish the crackers --- grab a smoke . . .
of Ferguson my muse will sing.
A call to arms --- God’s fires to stoke;
let Truth and Freedom ring!

Take to the streets; avenge this wrong
and hasten the end of racist rule.
Justice, though it may tarry long
will find its target in the duel.

Young Michael Brown, like all true saints
found himself craving Swisher Sweets.
He robbed a store, whose camera paints
impartial portrait. In the streets

the thief refused to be detained
and so threw off police restraint.
Though sin escaped, the Law remained
and made a martyr of this saint.

The agitators did their thing:
inflaming thugs to smash and loot,
while racists baited hooks, to string
the press. Officials followed suit.

Angels, although not always kind,
do not display this attitude –
aware of how the police mind
responds to such ingratitude.

We ought to thank the police force
for showing mercy under stress.
The culprit chose a foolish course
and made a God-awful mess.

Prince Michael met ignoble fate
(that ghetto-Christ, that righteous youth)
His sacrifice in vain --- though great,
could not impede the march of Truth.

Ferguson, our eyes turn towards you . . .
are you now able to admit
while reality rewards you
that looting and lying ain’t ****?