An Empirical Study on Black Lives in America: Analysis
I spy with my little eyes, something forsaken.
Like a forbidden fruit dangling on a southern tree
Dark and ripe,
Hung for display,
But never quite ready for the harvest
Too black, too proud, too repulsive.
I hear with my little ears, something abandoned.
Like a silent cry from an unborn mind
Mute and low,
Filled with silly tricks to entertain,
But never quite ready for entertainment
Too black, too proud, too absurd.
I feel with my little hands, something cold.
Like a cup of fresh blood that runneth over on urban pavement
Rich and transparent,
Declared as an unfortunate occurrence,
But never quite ready for justice
Too black, too proud, too ferocious.
I smell with my little nose, something scorched.
Like a borrowed culture sizzling on stolen land
Unique and trendy,
Appropriated by the common folk as fashion,
But never quite ready for Vogue
Too black, too proud, too ghetto.
I taste with my little tongue, something dangerous.
Like a chemically altered ideology drenched in hot sauce
Corrupt and foul,
Fattened up with poisonous lies,
But never quite ready for an intellectual feast
Too black, too proud, too unsophisticated.