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A word born from ignorance and hate A word to oppress, to limit our fate
Born into a world that is filled with pain sorrow They always make you wish you didn’t have to face tomorrow. A little boy who experienced nothing but hate, Grew into a man that spoke words and caused you to meditate.
And it's not necessarily the way you look at Jesus, But the way I don't. And it's not necessarily the way you know how to say every line, Of every prayer, At every mass, But the way I choose not to.
(poems go here) A nation with an obsession of freedom An obsession that was hypocritical Tragedy that freedom required martyrdom Only unified can we keep it from being cyclical
I stare out of the bus window at the bleakest of scenes As the Israelites stared at the Egyptian desert My thoughts are interrupted by the gruffest of voices Demanding Waiting That I move I will stay
What a shame, how we all were treated before, False accusations, people judged the color of skin. Our potential, needs, and feelings were forgotten, ignored, Our worn and torn shoes, no one has thought to step in.
The roots of my hair come from the roots of my background. Though I am my culture, I am not only my hair, my roots, I’m free. If anything, my hair is me. Golden paths, chocolate delights,
Timidly I walk into a diner for lunch As they look at me funny like I don’t belong Scowling their faces because we are different races Thinking we are obsolete beings marked by black faces
Freedom? Is that something we can really say we have? No. Our minds are trapped in the past Holding hatred against those who harmed our great ancestors. When really we are holding ourselves back from being truly free
They walked to school heads held high not knowing what awaited them but they had to try What you see are nine black faces, walking forward towards a crowd full of hatred. They
From the back of the bus To the front of the class, No doubt such hate and fuss Could ever last
Step, step, step— I walk the streets of Selma to obtain the unattained. Whip, whip, whip— The bone chilling voices of ancestors of plantation owners quiver down my spine. Bark, bark, bark—
(Also sounds appropriate as a rap) "I had a dream" started all this buzz they said "it ain't fair" but they were right because--