Better Get Hit In Yo' Soul

It is a matter of record,
That the records that have been recorded are recording the writings of writers who have written themselves into a coma,
Green pieces of paper, larger green lawns, and fake green eyes with voluptuous bodies of all colors have made these writers drowsy,

And despite the need for visually capable human beings to lead the blind,
These writers are journaling their songs through dead consciousness,
And the recipients are receiving substance from writers who are dead, alive.

The Black and brown proprietors donned in platinum and gold insecurities shelling out silver CDs and mp3’s have unevenly distributed their colorless garbage to the white community,
Therefore allowing the Anglo, to construct an angle, that narrows their perception so acutely that they miscalculate our shape as a people,
Somebody get them a protractor, so they can realize, that not all Black angles operate with the same degree,

Somewhere the unknown is whispering that you cannot buy freedom.
Instead we buy bullshit when the real shit is free.

Supporting victims who lyrically celebrate the demise of all who have fallen with them,
And these victims,
Are winning Grammys while disrespecting our grannies,
Neglecting the strength it took be mothered by their mothers,
Through songs they sing about our daughters,
And while little Sasha cheers because no one has taught her,
Michael slays his extended next of kin because he has been swallowing their metaphors for so long that when it is time to show real guts,
It’s their bullshit that he coughs up,
And his brother that he knocks down,
All because he could only bop his head to sounds with not enough love and more than enough frowns,
All to just be down,

And aren’t we all?
Down…
With more than enough empty dreams of ascending up to go around,
While our informal music instructors teach our women to dance and get around,
For too long we have constructed our own burial grounds,
With shovels covered in hot beats, hot chains, and hot clothes,
Digging the holes while professing hot words that couldn’t be more cold,

So somebody send an open letter to our people,
And tell them,
Do not let the untrained drummer control the drum of your heart.
Because it is not worth falling that far off-beat.