The New Normal Pt. II

If I lose hope
I'm fearing that my children might do the same
My mama fed me to the wolves
Gave me an animals name
and tho my father
tries sometimes
Nothing has changed
Taking sips upon the liquor
Crying out through the pain
Ain't nothing normal
Bout the man I became
Suppressing thoughts
A monster brought to me
The feeling is strange
The guilt
The Filth
Piling up in my brain
It only makes sense the world itself is going insane
But who's to blame for it
The cracker with the whip
Or my brothers who led the way for em
The button
Or the napalm
Yahweh or Shatan
I bet if trees could talk they would curse
Man's creation
God Please
Fucking
Adam and Eve
Get me a cotton picking
Church story I can believe
New world water got
Flint Michigan under a siege
If it's a black face
in this rat race
then the police
will make sure
That we the ones on the ground fixing to bleed
Nazi's in the White House
Comments you can't delete
Piles us on the ship
Strips away our beliefs
And still I'm begging for peace
While this cancer spreads
I'm choosing love instead of hate
No longer will I pretend
this ain't
The New Normal.

Every morning I wake
Owing a thousand thank yous
And Wondering Why I'm still in debt
Maybe we will find each other in a metaphor.
A simile will show us how race doesn't divide us on paper
Seems like Skin is more blatant than color here
like we ain't learn to overcome
from the heel of their foot
they set barriers and we conquered now all we have to offer
is the image of the scars on our Adam's Apple
and tell the story of how they will paint us
as A nightmare of never ending blackness
Like scavenger colored angels
Eager to devour your leftovers
Rotting in post demise
Don't listen to the monotone
It is not kin folk
Neither is the deafness your zone of comfort It is dubious idle
This silence will swallow you whole

So may my casket have the best acoustics
Let trumpets sing Miles Davis
And 12 bar medleys crescendo around my obituary
I hope they sing around my body
and use my back as a metronome
every crack keeps us all on the bass line
Let them remember how pain soothed us
Remind them how we spoke in cadences
How we owed our lives To sheet music and steel strings
Dancing to the sound of our own eulogies
May my six-foot grave be a concert hall
Celebrating the song of my ashes

I'm tired
My eyes have had their spines broken
fingers struggle to literate my mind
tears glued to my chin
spilling my thoughts on blankness
Trying to sculpt a sort of anything
These words are a truant
A deviant bastard
Too out of rhythm to any foster home of a tongue

I'm tired
And these words
Always seem to write themselves
As if ink cried freedom from pen
And thought found
asylum from throat
Our black was never meant to be normal
You are a surviving martyr
Testimony; there is no man larger than your diaphragm
No pen unfamiliar to your secrets
Jonas Bronck; nothing but a metaphor and a sign from gods

your words stem from silence and thought of music of rebellion

insanity with brilliance hidden by a frame too small to exemplify
your normal