Identity (PM)

identity (pm)

we ask ourselves, who is we? 

we wonder why our predisposition is to make everything about our complexion and our conditions, but why are we Americans? who does the saying, who tells the lies, some called the devil in their disguise, while we look to the skies and yet, 

still our people rise. 

established 1776, the freedom, the stripes, but our stripes remain true, our skin torn, tattered and bruised some call blue. 

as if our condition was anything close to peace, that this red on our skin still drip, but yet we still the least? 

when we’re emancipated, you could say proclamated, but those chains abound, still managed to keep the black folk down, “well boy you’re free now”, as if you don’t see this frown, as if we less because this skins brown.

see we be our identity, we know that kumbaya and thoughts and prayers don’t make you the activist you pretend to be, that when our boys enter that school their stars show, 50 stars all combined in glory to rise and say that “we know our identity, and it isn’t a pretend to be”. 

we know that if we waltz, or march that the revolution cannot be televised, because it requires a break free, some called wise, to break free from the all the lies, that you’d look me in my black eyes and tell me that “you did all you could, you tried”.

my identity is still true to me, not a state of blue, or a drop of red, but a pureness of white, and yet and still I know that I am not a pretend to be.

see, you can’t whitewash our history, that new building on campus cannot be held by the black bodies hiding in the dirt, as to say that you stood tall, murdered all and now you have the victory?

see, the identity of those bodies forgotten, but the mystery isn’t the names and faces its the years of lies to cover up that part of history, because when you oppress you write the rules, name the fools, and pity any and everything that stood in your way.

they mold the books as if life was a block of clay, and then show up as the heroes to save the day, this day is to remember the lives we took and pretended to pray that very sunday that the bodies in groves were better gone astray. but yet and still I know my identity, and that I’ll always be fair to me, and never settle for a pretend to be.

our american creed, to fit in, to breathe and bleed the same blood our forefathers forseen. but ask yourself, when that quill touched that page was the future they seen, mixed and black or was it mean, to be forever white mans america?

so when I ask you whats your identity, you look at me and tell me that you were meant to be, not separate but equal, not bruised or feeble, but to stand triumphant and say that “I’m not pretend to be, I’m apart of history, and I know what I’m meant to be, forever me in all its Black glory, my identity”

copyright © micah hill 2024