I don’t wanna crawl in that hole with your pigeon. Having been given a smidgeon of hope from y’all, I’ve made the decision to engage you, and make you listen. To enrage you as the sweat glistens–within that thin layer between hand and mic–that lets you know somethings missing.
You see me as white. A’ight. You see me as a man. Okay then. You see me as old, I’ve been told. You might even see my tatts. Congrats.
But, do you see my heart? Or must it yet be revealed? For I’ve played too many parts, for me to allow you to simply steal who I am from me. The whole is greater than the parts sum, see?, than the parts some see. A poet is the only label I haven’t gawked at during the talk back, or mocked at during a long chat after the fact.
I don’t wanna crawl in that hole with your pigeon