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
smooth criminal
 you are
the real deal
 in a villains field 
I'm looking 
at you bookin 
me in this prison 
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 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
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 
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 .
 bullet holes here for fun,
 no where left to run
Poetry Slam: 
This poem is about: 
My family
My community
My country


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741