Black Poetry : Somebody explain this shyte to a brotha

n2deepthings

Active Member
REGISTERED MEMBER
Sep 30, 2005
36
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Somebody explain this shyte to a brotha
© 2004

Iamwhoam1959

We relegate ourselves to far less than second class standards
And blaming the white man has become our standard
Yet we support agendas that take us for granted
You know the drill
Pass out a few crumbs
Leaving the rest of them stranded
Now how do you think those who were transplanted?
Thru the midst of the Atlantic
Feel about the seeds that they planted

Was it all in vain?

Now they say don’t hate the playa
Hate the game
So how does one explain?
The lore of red and blue gangs
Streets laced with bloody stains
Crack sales, gang bangs
Earning rep
the late poet Tupac called it - street fame
But Pac reminded us
That it’s the thugs in suits who stand to gain
And despite the daily carnage we remain the same,
Afraid to name names, accepting with mind numbing alacrity
Our collective shame

And how do we explain
Our lack of ambition
What ancient karma has come to fruition?
As descendants of kings
Bow in homage to inferior traditions
Cuz neither Muslim, Jew nor Christian
Has stopped our unrelenting march to perdition
We hear the truth
But offer little resistance
Preferring a marginalized existence
So how many more will die
Before we listen?

But we listen
To compromised politicians
With doggy style ways
As hidden cameras displayed
57 new ways to misbehave
And thus they betrayed
The martyrdom of Martin and Malcolm
As they were welcomed
In to the rituals of the beast
Participating in their blood lusting androgynous feasts

And what do you suppose
The millions of immortal souls
Say as we lie in repose
Watching us fold
As more and more leaders become exposed
For bargain basement prices they become bought and sold

And how do you explain
Our belief in a theology rooted in Caucasus caves
Forced on us by the ones that called us slaves
Thus we worship a man made god
With genocidal ways
And on Sundays we behave
In total acknowledgment of how far we’ve strayed
And just skip past the spot where the night before
A four year old was sprayed
Each night bullets blaze
And crack heads prey
On the elders
What once was a village can no longer shelter
It’s become more like Helter Skelter
But this is not a Lennon and McCartney song
And by the way,
Mr. Minister,
In 95 weren’t we suppose to atone?

So somebody explain
Why future kings continue to die
And 13-year-old mothers try to get by
Offering their temples
To the lowest bidder
Living in denial as their stomachs gets bigger
An existence 5 zeroes from six figures
But wouldn’t you figure
Some one would hip her?
And perhaps deliver
The truth about her holy roots
That the seed she carries is the sacred fruit
Of divine intentions
We need to put to rest our self-hatred
And self-inflicted lynchings
And recognize we are Black gods and black goddesses
On a holy mission?
Only by accepting our greatness
Can we make a difference
Yet with all that is stake
Can you explain to a brotha?
Why we still won’t listen?
 

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