across the globe we scatter like pieces of tissues,
as our issues, lay on the 5th and 6th page,
of our own agenda, we no longer can identify with
each other.
our hearts lay captive in the dungeons of fear
so when the revolution is calling on us to take arms of awareness
we act like we simply don't care.
this hip-hop generation subscribes to a mutated version
of what's reality, we're pacified by this notion
that our history began after slavery, that in our history
we have no legacy,

"The West exploits tribalism, sectarianism and (skin) color to feed war, which leads to backwardness and Western intervention in a number of countries. All the conflicts in Africa are caused by colonialism, which does not want the rise of the United States of Africa and works for division and interference and for military coups." Muammar Abu Minyar al-Qadhafi

I just can't empathize with the kids from colombine............

you see, fresh in my mind I see the face of Sean Bell's 5mth year old child.
she was deprived,
she was deprived
Can you see the tears rolling his fiance's eye's?
Can you see police has taken another life
can you see wrongly they have taken too many lives.
how can you justify being riddled 49 times
49 times
49times bullets penetrated his people's car,
49 times unanswered.

as if

AS IF

As if that money and respect diluted our cause
so in our history books we read of the civil rights,
of being on pause.
as if our revolution became the struggle's evolution
out the door went pan-africanisms, in came western tribalism
as if and Africans look down on black Americans and no one
can trust a West Indian.
as if We can't see the effects of 400 years of incarceration,
400 years none compensation,
400 years of no identification
as if 400 years were never missing,

society could not contain us
so they emasculated us
dressed up in costumes of greed and deceit
as if you made us believe that we had to sling that crack
on that corner for our families to eat
desecrating our future, in this capitalist era
not knowing how far we diverted from our ancestors
as if we forgot we are our brother's keeper.
as if we Forget we are our sistas protector
as if we forget we are not wife beaters
as if we forget we are not sperm donors
as if we did not remember once that our blood
lay the ancestral spirits of warriors

and when you see me I know
you assume as if I have been pacified
yet still, everything in my community
you must amplify, magnify,
as if a threat may still linger.

we have fallen so far away from Malcolm X's dream, Kwame Nkrumah and W.E.B DuBois dream. That in our differences we find strength. Africans throughout were and still are being oppressed. Today we find ourselves in a situation where we are the oppressor here in america. The diamonds we buy the clothes that we wear. these companies that buy from, being black or white support dictatorships. Everything that this capitalist society has showcased as a must have was paid for in blood by someone who looks just like us, Black, a minority. So I have to ask the question where is there success?

'I would like to leave behind me the conviction that if we maintain a certain amount of caution and organization we deserve victory... You cannot carry out fundamental change without a certain amount of madness. In this case, it comes from nonconformity, the courage to turn your back on the old formulas, the courage to invent the future. It took the madmen of yesterday for us to be able to act with extreme clarity today. I want to be one of those madmen. We must dare to invent the future.'

Thomas Sankara, 1985

Poverty is not natural. It is man made and can be overcome by the actions of human beings." -- Nelson Mandela

A twist to Gil Scott-Heron

this so called revolution will not be televised
this so called revolution will not be televised
this so called revolution..............has passed us by
while we have been pacified
singled out, broken into tokens
to symbolise our communities' demise
while we blame our failures and downfalls on the white man's lies
why.........do we only see things through the white man's eyes?
self hatred amongst us, through us and in us arise
we look at the authentic self in depise
mother is crying out but to no avail
so many atrocities mother has called out to our help
yet we have failed
we have failed
we have failed
In every shanty town in Soweto
have we failed?
every taste of a mud pie in Soleil
have we failed
every amputee in Iraq
have we failed
every death at the end of a bullet or machete
by a Janjaweed and Hutu
DID YOU FAIL?

a vision but not an illusion. (11/05/06) an actually dream

through the midnight raids, she stumbles upon UN aids
tears roll down her eyes, all this news reporter can see is
a victim of a genocide.
all i can hear are her cries..................can you hear them?
clothing herself with just the sunlight as uv rays beats against
her oiled skin, an off spring lay within.
another dead wrapped in her linen
her grief is unknown to me so all that I have to offer
is sympathy, all that I have are a pair of ears
so I asked, can you share your story with me?
through a translator, I learned she was born of a
Nuba lineage residing in Dafur, lived just like me
she had a spouse, she had a family.
she lamented stories of travelling distances
through blistering daytime heat and fridgit nights
thanking Allah's might that she escaped the janjaweed
with at least one seed. telling ME as tears roll down MY
eyes arise
I awoke from this vision but could not deviate from its illusions,
many are dying in Sudan. many have died as we cry daily about
cost of living when all they care about is LIVING!!!!!

If eyes are the portals to the soul, then lips are the corridors to the mind.

For all those who lay victim
To this foul opinion embedded in my doctrine
I say to you, NOTHING!!!
To my fallen brothers in arms
As we all wrest against the devil's charms
I..............Forgive You
I forget all the times that I've warned you
About these creatures that take flight at night,
in those skirts, those jeans that you saw was fitting just right.
these same women who open their legs
and you become engulfed in a parlor of death
for that time of intamacy there was so much joy and so much pleasure
only to know sooner or later your fate was met by just three letters
and truth be told in this world
where our spirit fights against our flesh
the most noble of my soldiers was kissed by this angel of death
and that day only draws ever closer
where just on your death bed where you about meet your maker
I wonder about the things you'd tell him in your last prayer?
talk about missed opportunities when you did not listen
times when you chose not to care?
And understand that time when you were so young and lively
And you could never think of settling down, because "too much woman
out there who want a piece of me"
And the Lords know how you needed bust because as man we get horny
Tell me my friend, my soldier, Brother with out protection
Did you think of H.I.V.

To My fallen brothers, may God rest your soul

Black Solidarity Day’s purpose over the last thirty five years has evolved. No longer are we in the era of hot mid summer riots, non-violent protest rallies against depriving us of the right to vote, and the right acquire equal opportunity as our former plantation owner here in America. Oppression has evolved and it has spread throughout the globe as capitalism grows and our thirst for superficial wealth creates exploitation in lesser developed countries. This reason to believe we have become pacified. These are bold statements since in the last forty years people of color have taken on a remarkable change in society. Most notable the rise in economic stature, however the impact of a post chattel society the quest for an identity has become our downfall. Earlier I mentioned pacification; I use this particular word to describe the state of this black generation. We have been pacified through the bombardment of heavy narcotics from the mid seventies through today. Our continued cause for the struggle has been diluted since the death of Malcolm X, Martin Luther King Jr. and the destruction of the Black Panther party. We ask our selves what are fighting for; the struggles we face have no longer become a unitary state’s problem, countries such Zimbabwe, Haiti, Sudan face a dilemma that is unprecedented. The struggle is not dead and the fight for social economic advancement has not ended.

Black Solidarity Day’s purpose in the 21^st century is to re-establish that connection with our identity, before we were a chattel led people. Before we became an ex-slave, to recognize where we have gone wrong and implement an action change to make amends. Today is Black Solidarity Day and no longer can we sit as images of New Orleans, Sudan and less recent Rwanda wage an onslaught on our thought process. We cannot call upon the generation prior to act because their time of action has passed and the mantle lay for us the youth to behold. The goal is to light that fire and harness it in as much people as we can so that they can love. Che Guevara once said true revolutionaries and guided by great feelings of love, and our purpose at the end of the day is to light the fire of love so they leave with a sense of purpose.

reunion

as he plays his KORA and sings his song
tears run from my eyes, part of me has a reunion
this griot who was foreign to me, after his song
holds me and embraces me like his long lost son
holds me with ancestral melodies
that my soul longs
that my soul has longed
that my soul longs no longer
refreshed and perplexed by the sound
of mandinka, that could have been my ancestral tounge
that could been my ancestral tounge
where they lay before they where taken away
I say there were taken away
I say they HAVE been taken away
to a strange land where different hands
enforce new traditions, new religions
vices and perversions distaught our memory
as bloodlines were ended and so did our history
i say so did our history
I say did our history
so now back to reality I shed these long tears
for it took me 23 years 3months and 22 days
to be reunited with part of me that was taken away
I say it was taken away
to be reunited today.

Now aint that something?
Our children's children already being born
Times have definitely changed
These children are accepted and adored because it's become the norm
But not to long ago I knew this little girl who was scorned
Treated like she's the devil's mistress,
walked the earth with a condemned unborn
Kicked out because her family believed she'll ruin shame their name
Forced to do it all by herself, because that Sperm Donor, That Pseudo-Father, that WHATEVER!!! was hooked on that corner planting his seed in another
Now where is the comfort? where is the support?
That becomes a cliche when she cries about her reality
That suppose to be till marriage
This little girl is forced into womanhood and has to shelve those ambitions of college
No time to listen to her so called family, who got nothing better to say
Only time to cry, weep, and take her frustrations out on new born at the end of the day
That time where she can only pray, hope that Mr. Right one day,
Can sweep her off her feet and take her away.
So I ask ? since then what Has Changed?
The spirit of that sixteen year old scorned with the new born is no longer
She takes times to listen to her 17 year old black sista.
Who boasts about the 2nd child due in the middle of October.
Young sista raps and spits about the new born with no bother.
Is not the start of a new life, an extension of the family tree?
I'm catholic so that's why I'm keeping it; besides my moms gonna take care of me
So the scorned steps and ask why'd she disrespect her
Why this little black girl disregard the torments and pains of being a single mother
She never even paid attention, she never paid mind
To the scorned sista life's book, not even a #%$ing Chapter.
So she pleads only in vain, because life's lesson taught
Came from trial and error, little girl have no idea how much the scorn fought.
In the end, the once scorned sista can only hope and pray
That other young black teenage sistas
Think twice about how fun it'll be to be a baby mama.

Nigger

Nigger

Nigger

Nigger!!!

I'm sorry, but I had to go to that means of communication
Just for a moment to divert your attention,
we needed to revisit the plantation.
Angola found in Louisiana, Attica in NYC and San Quentin in California.
My brotha we living in times where the prospect of freedom
Breaks it banks in our imagination
Redirecting our perception that it's a state of mind
Hmph.........Freedom..........State of Mind?
Let's try telling this to brothers who doing time
You see brotha, we got the nerve to say it's a state of mind
What would you say if you looked up behind bars?
And your soul wears years of pain that can me personified as being scarred?
Jus think for a few ticks which seem like eternity if the roles were reversed
And It was you that your family was looking at bar those bars or in that hearse?
And Jus think for a few more seconds that you are part of a strange statistic
Where we account for 15% of the country people yet 75% and up in prison.
Is our ignorance bliss or we jus love this, where fall victim the judicial system
and Become engulfed into depths of a reformed harden criminal.
May be this why we use the cliche
I'm victim of society
And yet we don't even recognize that there are other ways to keep you enslaved.
Are You hearing or are you listening?
Are you paying attention or are just watching
Stressing, itching, waiting
Waiting for me to shut the fuck up
Or jus waiting so I can calm down and explain
Why I singled you out in a crowd of
I'll tell you why, because amongst many you my brotha
I saw royalty.

A song we sing

AMAZING GRACE, HOW SWEET THE SOUND (sing)
Of the cries from the main land to the sea shore
Sounds of screams curses to a higher being,
That they don't wanna live anymore.
THAT SAVED A WRETCH LIKE ME .(sing)
Me who had, an identity
Me who had my own name, I had a family
I WAS ONCE LOST(sing)
Lost in the arms of my tribes who embraced me
Tribe IBO, tribe DINKA, tribe YUROBA, tribe ASANTE.
NOW I'M FOUND(sing)
Found? Found sounds more like stolen raped and abused
With a rap sheet so long, it'll make you dizzy, make you confused
WAS BLIND (sing)
Blind to millions upon millions dying by mass genocide and hunger
Blind to the disgusting reality that we got people over here throwing away
So much food, just to preserve their perfect figure.
BUT NOW I SEE.(sing)
See years upon years
From the River Nile to the Mississippi
Where we cry river of tears
Tears that explain what lies ahead
When you look at the once advanced Mother Africa
Over150 million HIV infected, soon to be dead.
And if you had not heard it before, I'm telling you now
The man who wrote this song
Whatever innocent Christ-like ideals you had of him
I'm here to say you are wrong.
I'm here only to speak the truth
Because when this man was writing this beautiful song,
This ship slave owner, was busy trying dehumanize our Roots.
If you think I'm lying, we'll just have wait and ask the Lord.
We'll wait and ask him how much of my ancestors did he force aboard.

Simply this is food for thought
stay in tune for part 2

AT LEAST SO I THOUGHT
Because here we are, buying into hook line and sinker
About these fairy tale illusions that we as a people are moving up.
Moving Up, Moving Out, God Damn it, do you here your selves
WE'VE BEEN BOUGHT
And bought cheaper than what was paid for initially.
So complex is the message being delivered
I'm reaching out to you subliminally, metaphorically and directly,
Directly into your heart, into your head
So when you go to sleep at night
You'll be thinking of AMAZING GRACE instead.

to my love

I see I see I see
I see these illusions of you and me
making love passionately
except we aint doing it physically.
but seducing our mind allowing
our thoughts to climax simultaneously
I feel I feel I feel
I feel your warmth surrounding me being inside me,
as radient and ever present as the sun
except when the sunsets holding you in my arms
I fell like life has just begun
as two becomes one
Yet even though I reject religion
you are my God, my state of peace, my
point of origin, allowing me grab hold of my inner being
as I stare into your eyes I see the few centuries
manifest of what I believe is true beauty,
and words are only what I can affords
so I let it be my Umbilical cord
enriching my soul with the strength
God gave to you my African queen ten fold
reconnecting four hundred years,
as I write this poem to you I try to hold back the tears
you are what wish for, the definition of, the gift
I prayed for from above
dream that has begun as to be one, union,
in some symbiotic sense of the word
as you grow I grow
as you love I love
as we do this together
not just as lovers
but something higher
something spiritual something reminiscent
of things when life was descent.
I'm hoping and praying that you'll see
what i see and feel what i feel,
but for now
I dream, I dream, I dream
I dream of the time you'll make up your mind
and be my queen.

Hair raising issues

OH SHIT !!!
"I CAN'T GO OUT LIKE THIS MY ROOTS ARE SHOWING"
I remember the day of that comment and how
this young lady had spoken so metaphorically ignorant
"MY ROOTS, MY ROOTS, I CAN'T LET HIM SEE
ME ON A BAD HAIR DAY, I NEED A PERM!!!
And though perm stands for permanent it can only be temporary,
Amazing isn't it? How complex it can become
the roots on our hair is connected to our skin
and our skin tells a tale of where we have been
So those roots, those roots
some how or the other I really do wonder if you my black sisters
are afraid of your roots
my opinion or the truth?
and in our lives we try so hard to disguise who we are and where we're from
if there's some way...... would you want your genetic make up to be African?
so I question where is your identity
chastising those who hair is nappy
or on weekends to the hairdresser, religiously fervently scraping and
clawing every penny.
Hm.......Is that an Identity?


if you all think this harsh take a good look. google images on beautiful woman and see if their is any other concept of beauty than a blond or burnette.

Thirty, forty, fifty
The price rises as we dip our head in shame
Sixty, seventy, eighty.
The more the price increases the more reason
to erase the memory of where we came.
Ninety, one hundred, one ten,
“Good Lord, the price of a Niggress has risen again?
I paid money for this female nigga, not that nigga, the one over there”
As the auctioneer summons for the nigga I look to my mother in fear,
Because that female nigga over there is the one standing right here.
One fifty, two hundred, three.
My eyes frantically relentlessly search for that escape route to be free.
Three hundred, four hundred, five
The time has arrived where my people find comfort in suicide
rather than staying alive.
But the price for me has been paid
And the destiny for me has been laid.
Upon a capture then to a journey known to many as the middle passage
I hope this young black generation is getting the message.
A message that I wish I could easily tell
About how great our empires were and how brutal it fell.
Up until the last four hundred years most of us lived an unthinkable hell
DAMN It !!! Have you paid attention?
Shown respect for the dead, honor those who had to suffer?
Open a Blasted book, read and understand that issues of our people
is NOT a closed chapter.
So now I wonder, through the eyes of that young black fore father
Who had to watch his mother be prodded and molested
I wonder if he could see years ahead, see where his seeds have landed
I wonder if at the sight young black sistas shaking their asses virtually naked
Brothers killings each other over nothing, I wonder if he’d be disgusted?
Or would he, be like me, and jus keep shouting, for change again and again.
Questioning their thought process with the use of a pen
Praying, hoping that the change he wants can only happen
Only if he is willing to fight for, bleed for, and possibly die for,
Just to put this shit to an end.
An end to hate, and end to lies and deceit,
And to the condemnation of black people
An end to broken promise we failed to keep
Promises that we should honor ourselves and our brothas and sistas,
Unite and finally start loving each other.

what do you owe me?
my culture ?
my history?
should I rebuke my process hair
and embrace my African name and my dashiki?
who am I
am I a negro?
NIGGA
Black
or "African American"
or are niggers or niggas the same
or am I paranoid, caught in perpetual.
racism, male chauvinism, ego-centrism
Who are you to call me third world
when you rape my sisters
ravage my gold, my land
then confine me to a metropolitan reservation
who are you to criticize
the way I talk
the way I dress
because of this what does it make me
more human or Less?