Name: Identifying selective years by two names derived from a place cash cropped by picking plantations.

Date of Birth: Colonial Times.

Address: Section 8 subject houses, link cards, liquor stores, and fresh jays.

City: Belligerent combative streets, tanks and missiles blow every street corner druggie.

Race: Check, Black-African American.

Black: according to Webster, lacking light, dirt, soot

African American: bonged from my land, yet chained to the of the free,

Where not free man can walk free because his skin resembles the dirt the color of the dirt that pierces his feet every time he walks a road promised 20 acres and a mule.

Submit, Application Complete!

Thank you for applying for a job that won’t dare hire a person living in government funding housing,

Off that 1 percent of Americans who own everything.

That’ll rather give hand outs so we can keep our hands out of this messed up economy.

Constantly giving handing out the opportunity to fail

Pressed and compressed in blue cards.

Appearing as aid, but it aids blind folded people to a store front window like an unknown species on the Twilight Zone.

Knowledge of not receiving the job

Because it interested you more on how my pineal gland resembles the Eye of Ra.

Which takes captive of your capitalized mind,

Rather than that, college degree hand woven from 16 years of a suppressive education,

Tailored for the destruction of a destructive nation.

Destroying nations that produce applications 

Fitted for unshaded elites.

My application holds all the truth to your lies,

Which when submitted is a resume’ of my demise.

My name as Americanized as a rosy cheeked girl with blonde hair and blue eyes.

Time frame more violent than the bombing of black wall street.

City more corrupt than the politicians convicted for raping lady liberty for her tax dollars.

Race more rich and refined than those blood diamonds shorty in Sierra Leone lost his arm for.

And my application more denied than self-identity in the face of the mirror

Covered with blood shed from that suicide victim reported on Fox at 9.

Oh, ugh, I forgot to include my activities and hobbies through.

Sitting back watching the puppet show of the puppet master string and toy with the mind of ignorant children

That are so ignorant that they don’t know they are puppets.

Though the revolution is not televised

Constant stereotypes are televised in the minds of managers,

Seeking that puppet who will attach its own strings

And snitch on its constituents like Uncle Sambo.

Unfortunately, I’m that militant soul 

Never kissing a souls ass

For asking me to sell my soul and become souless

So I pick up my shovel and tell you where my hole is

Because only conformity knows 

The frosty road not taken.