Black Lives Matter (Spoken Word)
I am a child of white parents.
And a product of an institution that tells me if I pursue my dreams, I will never be poor.
You are the product of a black mother.
And a systematic destruction of everything thy father ascended into the heavens for.
When I hold my hands up, I thank our Lord for the privilege to walk this earth, without the fear to live this life another day. When you hold your hands high, you’re just happy they didn’t shoot this time.
This time, just like every other time before, they try to tell us it was the bad man who did it. They repeat it to convince themselves they’re sure.
You ask your friends what was the crime to inspire this pursuit?
I ask my friends what really went down with Brangelina’s dispute.
My friends tell your friends, who then tell you, about the…wait for it.
War. On. Drugs.
Describing the suspect as another thug with those “damn jeans sagging below his waist.”
When all my friends did is maybe read a headline. A tweet. Or a post.
They didn’t even click on the link, because they were too busy thinking about what to say for their post about their new favorite place to go get a drink.
It doesn’t take anyone long to realize that the only crime the deceased ever committed was to think his life had worth.
When the only thing that matters is that I’m white and I’m right.
You’re black and you better watch you’re back.
For that black man. Not a bad man.
That black man whose life was cut short because he wore his clothes a certain way.
Well, it could be you some day.
This is the united states of racists and cowards, who spell it out in hashtag all lives matter, bullet holes, and administrative leave with pay.