If your hair ain’t nappy,
Don’t tell me what it’s like to be black.
If your brother didn’t get killed over a bag of Skittles,
Don’t tell me how I overreact.
If the laws of the lands were written and designed in your favor,
You can’t judge me on how my trust waivers.
If your ancestors didn’t have to march, fight, starve, die over equality that we still haven’t seen,
You ain't got jack shit to say to me.
I don’t want to sit down and have words over lattes,
Arguing over he say she say.
You not gonna sit down and converse with me,
Justifying Ferguson the same way they justified slavery.
Average angry black woman?
Ok. I’ll be that.
‘Cause being a content negro okays them putting shells in my back.
I have little brown nephews that I stay up all night praying for.
Emmitt Till, Trayvon Martin, Mike Brown.
Need I say more?
I don’t know if that last kiss was the last kiss
Or that last hug was the last hug.
It done hit home now.
No more sweeping it under the rug.
No, rioting ain’t the answer.
Neither is violent ruckus.
All we’re doing is being the ignorant negroes that they call us.
Just proving their points that we’re ignorant by being belligerent.
Half of us causing chaos can’t spell it.
Just jumping on the band wagon as if this is something new.
Before we were even thought about being born,
The justice system was justifiably screwed.
The law killed Jesus,
So what do you think it’s going to do to us?
It was designed to mentally restrain us,
So it will never gain my trust.
All lives matter,
But dark lives are the main targets.
Especially when all a jury can deliver is a weak, “We’re sorry.
We couldn’t find anything to convict him with.
We need more proof than the proof to bring y’all justice.”
The law’s going to do what it was designed to do—
Continue to protect its own,
And put a muzzle on me and you.
The bigger the circle,
The harder it is to be ignored.
Imagine a nation of blacks saying that we won't be tolerant anymore.
The blinders are off,
And we’re using our voice,
By supporting each other's endeavors And making sure that our lives matter to each other first.
If your name ain’t Charita Sharelle Jordan Arvie, Don’t tell me what it’s like to be me.
And if your skin has never been compared to a paper sack,
Don't you dare tell me what it's like being black.