What does it mean to be black?
To be so overridden with hate of self?
The state, the pain, the lack of self.
Is it just another way to be enslaved?
See Africans we fake at pride
We laugh at slogans like black lives matter
Think we are so morally above the shame
Yet we chase the fame, that paved this game?
Our generation we are not the same.
Pure voices conquered by the bleachers and the fakers
Singing black is beautiful
Then hunnie why do you indulge the paint?
See there is beauty in our flaws
The tainted messes, the hearts, the racists
The sadist, the teacher, all sun kissed creases
But there is no pride in our silence.
We are no heroes when we are afraid.
With bullet holes bought from social media
And social fame bought with our soul freedom.
Call it vanity, but we are a black out masterpiece
Me, my beauty is skin deep
But i am not more than my skin
I am my skin; i am the jewel of Africa
The symbol of pride, love, of freedom
The roar of Simba, modeled by the heavens and I shine.
So why do the words on this paper, question the draft of my own sanity.
Why do we accept the version we’re sold with no thoughts and no clarity.
We ignore the gravity of this war
We ignore the gravity of our silence.
For with blood we fought for freedom
But with shame we’ve lost our mental right to be free.