NEW BLACK
- Dec 13, 2016
- 2 min read
I am the work of my mother's hands.
The result of an honest man.
Victimized by an era most boomers don't understand.
I hear our subliminal cries for an order never instilled.
For a code never encrypted.
I watch us carry the guilt from a parent never equipped.
They punished slaves by forcing us to watch each other get whipped.
Now we pistol whip each other.
Or undermine each other.
You can get in line, just not in front of me brother.
Here's a ladder to climb, long as you climb behind brother.
Somewhere between Nixon and Carter there was digression.
Maybe Willie Horton's ad took a toll on our inflection.
Silly for us to think the country won't do black bogus.
And crabs in a barrel never make it out; know this.
But if knowledge is a mass destructive weapon.
And the future's in the hands of our discretion.
Why have we failed to notice?
The most educated generation of our existence.
The least perpetrated generation of our existence.
At least we have freedom; well kinda.
At least when odds are stacked up we can beat them,
Kinda.
Still, never acquiesce to this new found culture.
These no marriage, make more money style vultures.
These no merit, fuck heritage style cynics.
We're leaders within ourselves, recognize what should be mimicked.
Like the hardworking hands of a great, grand or mother.
Like the unity and pride of a 1960's brother.
Like the unspoken respect of the woman being the neck.
Enlightenment's revolution but it doesn't mean neglect.
Individuals break traditional but it doesn't mean forget.
Black leaders are prostitutes but could be more like architects
Rather building than selling out for deposits to come direct.
My black queen like thor.
White man like how?
We locked every door they could open.
What should we do now?
My black men be proud
Brown skin wear loud.
Folklore game strong.
Noire back in style.
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