This is for the boys in two-bedroom homes,

with scrapes on their knees, futures unknown.

the girls with names considered ghetto and strange,

the world their grandmother was born to is unchanged

This is for the evil words we still cannot reclaim

They don’t know how much it hurts, it all remains the same

This is for the Sunday choir and girls in white,

all the poets and painters that can’t sleep at night,

because all they hear is sirens and all they hear is screaming,

and their only inspiration is the struggle of dreaming.

This is for the Nias, the Christinas, and Darnells

the Aalyiahs,  Jasmines, Maliks, and the Terells.

We’re painting the radio with bold black and blues

But we’re only heard when it’s convenient to you

Court rivals, uncertain smiles

For the boys who jump fences while their sisters jump rope,

‘cause mama works the night shifts and

there’s no other way to cope.

We have to behave, they won’t let us be great

Spraypaint the city with beauty they’ll erase

Like they did our identity, the place from which we came

They don’t care about our story, they don’t care about our pain

They’ll lock us away, even if what we say is true

They silenced MLK, and they’ll silence you too

Keep moving past the limits they thought we’d never reach

Be a Harriet, be a Rosa, be a Coltrane, be an Ailey

Send our dreams soaring to rest upon clouds

Feed empty mouths with bountiful truths:

“There’s no shame in being proud”

Let them hear you scream freedom

We’re tired of bleeding for freedom

Why should we change our skin for freedom

I want to burst at the seams with freedom