The rituals we follow before November eighth
Empty the car and flood into the voter booth,
Me, and my mother, and my baby
I am not well.
The kingdom is balancing on the edge of the cliff
Of the rift
Provided by a madman and
i want a home without death without fear //
the house i live in struggles with welcoming me //
it doesn’t accept my
Strange Fruit is falling/Its skin, bruised from years of neglect
Its soul weary of the fight/Its soul, beaten down for standing strong in its
I am brown/Brown, dirt is brown/They think I am dirt, dust/
They clean me out from underneath their fingernails/Wrinkle their noses in disgust/
Got my hands up while you got a bulletproof vest./From the way you were shooting, I’d think I’d had an X on my chest.
The way rhythms and good vibes coincide through the bass in your headphones is all for you./
Guitar riffs and lyricists, sneakers and ballet
All I know is that last weekend I was pulled over/
For walking too fast down the sidewalk.
“Where you going, black Muslim
Lacquered acrylics fix beneath silk/Constricting around cranium/
Sustaining the days’ style, for the morning/I lay my head upon my pillow
Resting my eyes/And
White child, are you afraid of me? With skin black and teeth gleaming/I pray that you outgrow your fear of the dark/It is best for
You are an artist, a scientist, a visionary/All of this just happens to come in many shades and colors.
Events like this remind everyone that teens do a have a voice — a loud and creative one at that.
