Fuck you all,
come get me.
Paint the street with my blood, crucify me.
You know what?
I AM your enemy;
everything you can’t be.
I know you resent me.
If I was you, I too, would take my presence to be
a reminder of everything that haunts me.
Fuck your property, too. Let it burn.
Get your house torched with you in it —instant urn.
Come here, I'll give you valid reason for concern
that what you’ve
visited on us, you'll get twice in return:
Riots you get and
riots you deserve — a Sherman’s march through American suburbs.
But fuck you.
Tell that to Michael,
to Oscar, tell that to the heavens above you.
Tell that to Eric and Tamir and John and Trayvon,
tell that to all
the other names we
can’t remember once they've gone.
Take your Psalms,
and your silence, your “wait, wait” and bin it.
You can fuck yourself
right in your respectable ass with it.
Fuck your hope,
fuck your prayers,
fuck your appeal to calm.
Today you do not get to tell me I'm wrong.
Today we do not get to stand here arm in arm,
and sing kumbaya till
we all get along.
Today we all burn,
today we all bleed.
And today we have
learned what we
never could read,
that “Niggers Ain't Shit” is still our founding creed.