Friday, July 15, 2016

"America: The Soundtrack"

"America: The Soundtrack"

You are not awake.
You're just a wake away
from hash tag homage.
If eyes could see
this form of freedom,
one would brand it bondage.
You brandish knowledge
and speak violence when provoked
where you otherwise would choke
except to proclaim that you're woke.
Slumber seen in fading vision.
Sandman takes his time.
He then robs you blind.
Tragic price less sacrificed
when gleefully relinquished.
I on the other hand have seen this
and it lends me to insomnia.
Blood pushing the thermometer.
The world weeps. I can't silence her.

My ears bleed.
They hear seeds strewn in prejudice.
They fear screams
and all things used to measure this
dilapidated state.
Hapless banter over
happenstance as vast
as laps I ran with no escape
that look less coincidental
as frequency takes shape.

Your level of consciousness
Is just a consequence away
from countless RIP memes.
In a world where
what you post is who you be
and freedom is apparently a dream.
You preach about being free
and dress in chains that muzzle your voice
giving you a false sense of choice.
Wrapped in entitled hope.
Oblivious to the real fight.
Slippery slopes.
Into a pool full of lies.
Tight ropes.
Wash it all clean with the soap
but don't look too close.
Beware the dirt behind your ears.
Beware of what it will reveal.
I can't stop my emotions from bubbling over.
It causes my body to shudder
at the sorrows of the world.
Despair doesn't play fair with me.
The world weeps. I can't stop the screams.

My pen bleeds.
Struggles to breathe under the sea of bigotry.
Scared of freedom
because freedom doesn't look free
and justice sleeps with partiality.
Ink dreams of peace
and my soul hides with no escape
and things look detrimental
as frequency takes shape.

I'm caught behind
these thoughts of mine.
This morbid mind....
expected less when presented more.
Not much more to find.
You've claimed the narrow
between shadows thinner than marrow
that only serve to conceal the curve
of bow and arrow.
Bass to the base of my face.
Every pace blaring.
So long this near,
I barely hear
and you've done less for caring.
Trouble trouncing in treble
and I can't change the key.
Lies and deceit stuck on repeat
and you won't change for me.

You compete to have your voice heard.
How much do you deserve?
Are you worth the playback?
Will I get my pay back?
Didn't you say that?
Should we even listen?
Is something wrong?
Ran out of songs
yet you still charge admission?
What good are we to pay the fee
for health care when our welfare
is as marginal as he
who silenced me
behind finger and trigger?
Wouldn't call me boy
or dare think to call me "Nigger"
but statistics and figures have gathered the slack.
Your knee in my back.
You puncture my lung.
You remaster this track.
Oldest song still sung in sorrow.
A new feature tomorrow.
A new remix to borrow.
Drew some inspiration from this nation
complete with video.
Cities hold the verses
to the nervous
called to versus
the perverse at last revealed.

Rush released for mass appeal.
Record stale and sales concealed.

Run back the tape.
Turn back the hands of fate
when life was worrying about if rent was late.
Not if time was up
and you'd never wake again.
Duped by the grins.
Can't even get a decent spin from the DJ.
His hands move faster than his mind
records spinning in rewind
yet we stand still
caught in time.
Your life.
Or mine.
You win.
I die.
A slight shuffle in rotation
causes disorder but no transformation.
You hardly blink at the change in the beat
but I recognize the cadence
of your rehearsed speech.
Mouth full of inaccuracy
and truth just out of reach.

Breathe in.
Do your words taste as good as they sound?
Are they worth my time?
What about my life?
Did you get home safe last night?
Should we believe the hype?
Are you mistaken?
You're obviously shaken
but you don't believe in stereotypes?
Tell me again why we follow the rules
when you just pick and choose
draw, win, or lose
under your white house decree?
Would you prefer to call me mulatto
or does saying half breed bitch
give you more pleasure when raping me?
Your hand on my throat.
You throw me to the ground.
But you don't pull up on the choke.
Still the oldest song we know.
Still the reason we live only to hope.
A new album for the masses.
A new notch in the whip for massa.
Finding reasons to explain our demise
complete with storyboard.
Media corrals the willing
to be witness
with top billings
to the recent killing for public sale.

Exclusive shows and private viewings
perfect to catch a glimpse of USA's
infamous endangered black males.
Yet they tell us our records won't sell.


Written By: Kiana D. Fitzpatrick and Devin Joseph Metz