Never let anyone tell you what to do,
Virtue of the wise, dumb, dull.
I look at my caramel melanin dew,
Sky, grass, black equals null.
No sky beauties’ those dark,
I’s spell my I’s because my eyes not blues.
Nor the semi can not be stark,
The igger rhyme reminds of marginalized words-oozes.
George Jackson shot wounds on all blacker Northerners,
Yet L’overture speaks for I.
At the end, we are all color foreigners,
Revolution requiems before we die.
Tired world, always told what to be,
Not you, nor I, tired is all we.