Crumpled Up Love Letter

by mic Asaad

Thunder claps like Black church hands in the south,
  sounds similar to gats that clap on Black backs.
This happens everyday in the ghetto, even outside city limits.
Where did we go wrong, what happened to all the Love?
Well, the Love got tainted somewhere between integration and big business.
That's where we forgot about the attitudes our ancestors kept,
and Love for Self and our brothers
  got swept away quicker than the Nets in four sets during June.
This Love was pushed under the rug with all the deception,
murder, mayhem and more lies,
   between the cracks like crackheads,
   our disenfranchised and young teenage thighs,
    out the door, akin to the back door my granddaddy was forced to go just
for a simple service...
And yours too!
But we forget about that and All that was Black and the fact that just being
Black is beautiful.
Black is beautiful in infinite ways, in ways we can't explain because we
lost
touch
  with that melanin in our skin used to comprehend those things Mr. Charlie
thinks a mystery.
Ya'll, we lost touch with our history because we were tricked into believing
it was "his."
And Amerika wants to be Black so bad that She talks, walks and dresses the
part,
She studies the form of our art and culture that we named Hip-Hop, R&B and
Jazz.
She studied and studied, studies and studies and studies until soon, it is
stolen!
Damn.
My people, what a precious sight to behold, but amongst each other we turn
shoulders that are cold.
Stand around and waste divisive words and energy on comrades not the enemy.
Spend $457 billion on four wheels, picked cotton and jewelry - yearly.
Please listen to these words, I don't give a damn whether or not you hear
me!
Feel me?
I thank God this anger is channeled between the streams of creative thought
and poetry.
Quietly, my ancestors spoke sternly and said we were headed straight down a
180┬░ degree path.
Now if 360┬░degrees is a revolution, then evidently we don't know the half.
Sounds like we hustlin' backwards, but don't take my word - you do the math.
Or would you rather wait for the aftermath?
No, not the next album by Dre, Rakim or Eminem,
But the fire that won't cease if no common ground is reached in the East.
Not in Philly, D.C., NYC or Long Island,
  more like in the "middle" of somewhere else where brothers really be
wildin'.
Since you a playa, peep game.
My God, it's ashamed that we've become so diverted by the flirtations of the
devil
  when we have such a powerful choice, a powerful voice - for example, in
our
music.
But the majority of the cats I'm looking at fail to really use it.
They'd rather abuse the opportunity while they batter the impressionable
minds of our youth.
Instead of speaking the truth about justice and equality,
Raps get jam packed with drug use and misogyny.
While the bones that bled and took stones turn over in graves,
We strive to "keep it real", or do we just plain misbehave?
The peace for which we reach can only be grasped in the midst of our
harmony.
So, before another brother is dehumanized by the police with acts of sodomy,
  let us put away that false pride and simply say, "pardon me".
"Pardon me my brother and sister for I failed to Love unconditionally."
"Pardon me please, family, because I failed to simply, Love."


Crumpled Up Love Letter by mic Asaad

© Copyright 2002. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.


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