Yet my path grows my story will never change.
It grows, it calls, and it even bleeds, yet never asks for help.
The reach of its fingers linger at a distinct,
yet it hurts to watch it struggle.
Grabbing at my feet, I scream, yet I never peck.
Mistaking for a false blink,
I'm questioning reality for the situations that lead to me.
Damning those who harm me, damning all those who whipped me,
yet I forgive and forget; to only be left with braking memories.
My nature was of hunting, survival, and rituals.
The savages of society massacred my chemistry.
Separated from a ocean,
yet I hear the deaths come in by the news.
It's echoing sound drowning me in messages,
left from the waste of forgotten things.
It almost sounds like blues,
it's mimicking affect of fingers mass-skating me.
It's soft touch of jazz raping me of the worst things.
I hope that my house in Africa was better instead of my discrimination in America.
Fix-sated on a cultural I never knew,
yet my name comes from his forgotten history.
Yet I'm left thinking, what is there left of me?
For all those who are striving, I will hunt down a lion.
I am the savages of all my people,
the madness of all my rage,
the pain and hurt that's all in my legs,
as I grabbed the staff in the woods,
I hear the beast of the wild come out of the bushes;
hear me roar, hear me the devour,
but don't see my face when I attack because I'm a coward.
They came from sea, they came from hatred,
and yet they saw our faces;
we weren't such of those things they sent us out to be.
Shredded in tears I hear them come,
one by one they took my brothers and sisters,
and raped my mothers and enslaved my fathers.
They say were only good to clean, that's a lie,
a bastard of a butler's mother.
I am blood; I am sweat, and tears;
but I surely more than the color of my skin and my peers.
I lay in the water, I wash away.
The red of sons, tribal rum,
yet capered in slashes; my eyes grow weary.
I loved the paint that drew from the mud.
Yet I lay in the water and I wash away.
There is blood and here is color,
yet it is only the clay of a lost mother.
I'll say once as I said as the last,
I am the cousin of the lion King.
This is the rules of all my skins,
they raise me proud and high up in the sky.
As like so many there was one who spoke of me.
Spoke of many names, but one speech;
one strength of one chain that never was broken.
They locked me in shackles, but my name never lost sight.
They saw me as broken, but they never even got to witness my will.
I came in many forms and many colors.
I was always spoken of the same,
but I dare you not even understand me because
I am freedom, freedom shall rain!