I think the strangest part of being Black is that you are gold, a shining absence

Absence embodied in dust and hope

Each one of us are sewn together with the final breaths of our mothers as we leaves our homes

Embarking into the place that has thirsted for our blood since our birth

Holding back tears as we hear the "n" word flung at us from Confederate trucks

Or, better yet, called thugs as we try to show them that we're good Negroes

That we're not like "those Black people" and you know the ones

The ones who aren't afraid to break in a window or handle a situation on their own

The ones who easily turn their music up while the oppressor flashes their badge in the lane over

We ain't like those no good ones who don't know how to be quiet and keep family secrets

No, we're deserving of respect

We've earned our humanity and your stamp of approval

We're begging for you to signal to the others

Come on and yell "this is a good one" on down the way

Let Martha know that her double clicks aren't necessary

It is a funny thing being Black, somehow you are too loud and too quiet

You are a beast and a victim

Being Black is the persecution of a divine being

Always giving our lives in hopes that this one will finally matter

My people were slain in the street

Our wails became headlines splashed across screens

But no one ever heard them, they were too busy You are fighting a war that your enemy has decided to ignore

Their morning coffee consists of creamer the flavor of Black blood

And music following the sharp tune of our screams