🔵 By James Hampton. Photo by lauragrafie.
They shoot our sons and molest our daughters, stress our mothers, incarcerate our fathers,
they salt our wounds, never allowing them to heal, they say it’s not of a man to feel,
they want us as hard as granite so we don’t feel the subliminal whips,
they make us fear the dark, but what if nightlights don’t brighten complexion,
I see our fountain of culture being drained, they want to tame my mane, make me less of a lion,
but I’m defiant, these are loc’s of love, they box us not understanding the complexity of sort,
they amputate our limbs and wonder how we make limps look stylish, outwest was my island,
we were secluded taught by 8th grade drop outs but made the most of our schooling,
made tools from sticks and stones we thrive without,
corner store meat packages built GOD bodies,
only organics were the band’s, only wore a suit twice funeral and prom but don’t cry for me,
I sagged my big brothers platinum fuBu, made them 36’s fit a 32,
cleaned my air force ones with a toothbrush until they looked brand new.
How do you know real struggle?
When your little cousin steals your big brother’s hand we down’s from you,
maybe that’s generational wealth? The media says I’m less without brands, is Nigger not enough?
What about thug? Convict? They put it all on me, it’s by design,
how do I find solace knowing my opps control the world…