History in the Present Tense
My nigga had eyes deep enough to swallow the sea,
not swallow the pain that you laid at his feet.
But miraculously,
he couldn't help what had happened to me,
because broken men like you so easily deceive
innocent girls who were walking down the street.
I'm talking this man's food is
Like feed on me
is breed with me,
blind fold meets duck tape ,
no see, no scream.
I am not a human being
but an animal
and you are the
original
smooth criminal
you are
the real deal
in a villains field
and
I'm looking
at you bookin
me in this prison
Thankful
that you stole my vision
And your cuming to this decision
Found your release successful mission
And I'm laying here wishing,
I could have clawed off your dick-tion
You claim that black pain is fiction
In the book that you've written
Girls are tired of the weight and the room has now shifted.
Your bloody scale has been tilted
And we grant you your sentence
A verdict with no limits
your motion- picture is finished
here.
Here lies a body drained of pure African blood in the 50s
I got eyes like my ancestors screaming did you miss me
Close up and personal got a date with my history .
Don't hold my neck to tight love
Forgot your people lynched me?
Spit in my face and still want to kiss me
Call me a nigga but still wanna dick me
Down
Still a slave when I'm tied up and bound
Strong enough now to hold my ground
I haven't been black
since your white smeared my back
ground grey
And you thought ocean blue eyes was enough to wash away
The scars on my back
that you lashed four times a day?
Have the audacity to call it love
portray my brother as a thug
Profile picture is a mug
and I'm thinking
We share similar hobbies
You say rape I say robbery
You take what you can't possibly
Possess.
The blindfold not to shield my eyes
but to hide the surprise of fear
Of fear
Of fear
Of your fear
Cuz you're Afraid to die here
Know you deserve to lie here
So you killed ebony, coffee and rye here
But your excuses fall to deaf ears
Don't fall into bed with all of me
But tell your mother im dirty laundry
Willing to smear your canvas with my charcoal
and deny the truth in your soul
It's not about half of me, my
Black isn't your property ,
Your lies havent got to me
Reaping my bodies garden
You call it botany.
As we hold the gun ,
you used to kill our sons .
Three
bullet holes here for fun,
Two,
no where left to run
One
Done
This poem is about:
Me
My family
My community
My country