Stop demonizing the dead,
Bullets holes in our stomachs,
In our heads,
Bullets shoot through walls,
Kill our babies in their beds,
Choking us,
To our death,
Hanging us,
In holding cells,
Hunting us,
With our hoods over our ears,
To keep out the cold,
Blood mixed with the skittles that fall out of our pockets,
I didn’t know,
That the rainbow,
Tasted like Black bodies,
America consumes our flesh,
Then imitates our funky fresh,
Turns Bantu knots,
Into messy buns,
Turns cornrows,
Into boxer braids,
Turns Black life,
Into Black Death,
Like we’re the plague,
Then smudges our names,
On a smear campaign,
When our graves are still open,
Stop demonizing the dead,
I don’t care,
If there,
Was weed in Botham’s apartment,
I don’t care,
If there,
Was a knife on Freddie,
I don’t care,
If there,
Was a gun in Philando’s car,
When he had a right to carry,
I don’t care,
If there,
Was a video of Sandra,
Filming a routine traffic stop,
On a crooked cop,
I don’t care…
When her body hung,
They called it a suicide,
When we don’t want to die,
I know they fucking lying,
Some petty theft,
Or curiosity on construction sites,
Doesn’t not give America permission to end our lives,
Twist our stories,
Daggers in our legacies,
Post our mug shots,
Instead of our smiles,
Post our indiscretions,
Instead of our growth,
Report on our troubled youth,
Or our single households,
Or just make up something,
Because it’s so sensational,
When these killers,
Are vacation’l,
On leave from their police departments,
On the beach,
With their taxidermy deer,
On their porch with a beer,
But never on the lamb,
They don’t have to run,
They don’t have to bury their sons,
They don’t have to answer to their sins,
When we go to trail,
And we don’t win,
And then the reports,
Distort,
Our being,
It’s the two killings of Sam Cooke,
It’s the bullet in our bones,
And the assassination of our character,
It’s the trauma of speaking names,
Instead of speaking to the person,
Our tears fall,
Following the hearse,
And,
We fall apart,
Our memories stained,
Our past to be the blame,
Stop demonizing the dead,
The bounty on our head,
Collected,
The good in our deeds,
Rejected,
The glow of our souls,
Detested,
Our survival,
In my Khalid voice,
We the best,
Whew,
So let’s review,
Boxer braids don’t belong to you,
Those messy buns are Bantu knots,
And on any day,
Try me not,
Let our Black bodies,
Rest In Peace,
Just let us be,
“Get yo hand outta my pocket”,
“Stop it,
If you think you gonna make a profit”,
And hunting for our heads,
Stop killing us,
And stop demonizing our dead.
