I wish that dreaming was as easy as an addiction.

Roll up your nightmares in a brown swisher.

And place your doubts inside and light it up.

But it seems that my little black and brown boys and girls have been mentally stimulated by the reverse oppression in today’s urban communities.

Because dreams are illegal in the ghettos.

We’d rather hear sirens and gun shots rather than a block party celebrating our children’s success, growth, knowledge and aspirations to be better than who we are.

I wish that becoming a revolutionary was as easy as becoming a crack addict.

With one hit you are hooked on the revolutionary crack pipes.

Where you are willing to do anything to insure that the little boys and girls know that Africa’s original name was Alkebulan.

And meant mother of mankind.

Romans sought out to disconnect the indigenous people of Alkebulan from their culture deities and knowledge.

By renaming everything that seemed sacred and disconnecting the significance of any archetype they had.

And I wish that leading a generation of misfits and drugged up kings and queens was as easy as lining them up and doing hella lines just so they can get high enough to see that their dreams can’t be obtained because their state of mind won’t allow them to do so.