My life means more than my cans and can’ts, more than money and fame, more than the names stitched on my shirt or pants, worn by people all the same.
My life means more to me than yours does to you, not to say mine is worth more, but if you loved your existence as I do mine, then why do you allow what happens to you?
Young man, these people will take everything you have. Even your so called brothers will take the last piece of bread out of your hand, then throw you on the ground, laugh at your embarrassment and inequities while eating your last. Your back scarred with thousands of years of Egyptian and Caucasian whips, your mind tainted with delusional illusions of grandeur when a negro male making it past 35 and not in jail is as rare as a white man that gives a damn. Young man, you are not free from slavery. You may not have the chains, picking cotton in the fields but what are the clothes you tirelessly work, grind, and hustle for made of? Young man, your mind is not free. Listen to me! They tell you that you can be anything, then tell you few are chosen, then tell you be all that you can be. Young man, they want you to work for them, that’s why the military are the only ones saying those facetious encouraging affirmations. Don’t lose yourself in the tyranny that is pop culture, because when you die you’re just another body, and even your Mavado watch can’t stop the time of your judgment day. So go…break your scarred back for your fancy things, but know, when God asks what you’ve done in His name, the Armani suit you were buried in won’t mean a damn thing!
Young lady…my heart bleeds for you. You’ve been tossed around like a rag doll for too long. Your father was never there to show you the difference between a man of God and a man of the world, so you’re tricked by his sparkling smile, fancy garments, and a ride as smooth as his slicked hair. His words melodies to your senses chimes while he whispers what seems to be sweet nothings but are daggers disguised as friendlies. You hesitate allowing him access to your beloved temple, and as he enters your sacred place, you realize how wrong this is but it’s too late…every stroke is unbearable, and his panting irrevocably is deafening. His eyes are no longer the soft hazel they were before. Young lady, you’ve been tricked for too long. You stay jumping from male to male desperately seeking approval from them, to replace the male that was never there. He left you…that’s why when your partner has climaxed you cry tears of abandonment, tears of years wasted on men that are similar to the father you never had in that they all leave you…they never loved you. Young lady, you’ve settled for dissatisfaction for too long…you don’t need anyone when you love yourself.
My people are dying in front of my eyes. My life means more to me than yours does to you…and I’m praying to God to find out what I can say or do for this to no longer be true.
I’m praying for you.
