I worry about your legacy, my Kings.
There’s a malignancy pilfering your souls.
It’s out of control.
It’s despicable
and it’s taken a toll
on our entire community.
Mothers burying their children.
Fathers in and out of prison.
News reporters speculating
because statistics predict
that you’ll be judged by twelve
or either carried by six.
It use to be the Klan murdering the black man
but today you’re responsible for your own demise.
Shooting up your hoods, then you run and hide
as gunshots ring through the air like an anthem,
but you get no praise.
When you look in the mirror what is it you see?
A young Black King with no integrity?
You’re cowards
and you’re afraid
of being individuals.
Painters, doctors, or hell,
burger flippers.
There is dignity in all honest work, my Kings
but you remain enslaved while you
answer to names
like Nigga without knowing from whence
that came?
Black men like you stood proud with no concern
as their houses and possessions were all being burned.
Whips and chains…
Cries of pain…
Your ancestors were even stripped of their names.
But today you're free to soar like eagles,
yet you clip our own wings.
Violence is not your inheritance
and it’s not your fate, I pray.
Black Kings without crowns
who’ve simply lost their way.
