To be black in a world of preconception is uniquely frustrating
As if the color of your skin depicts the person they are seeing
Or perhaps not a person but a thing
An animal lost in a future due to its history being stolen
Stripped of one but left with a clipped wing
Forced to walk down a path that’s inherently broken
I get told I don’t act black as if there is a template for it
I get told I speak “well” as if diction and a black color are a bad fit
And a lack of broken grammar with a solid vocabulary
Shows signs of an education they tried to keep from me
Opinions are based on a media that never consulted anyone
Twisting reality and then asking me to conform
But if I do then I am considered just another “one”
What is a soul to do when prejudice is the norm
I grabbed my pen as a sword as I stepped on the battlefield
The ink is my armor and my paper functions as a shield
I am swinging at an army of stereotypes
Cutting down preconceptions left and right
Their blades penetrate my patience but I still fight
In my back are the whispers of the fallen poets who used to write
History stands tall as their general, as racism is written across their chest
And I am still trying to get to their king, till I do I won’t rest
