My People

my people, my people...
listen, listen;
This is an authentic depiction
of what was meant to be fiction.
a tale of contradiction.
This is a story of a man.
The story of a man who came out of the south
with a plan to get out of the mouth of the man.
Been chewed up and spat out
past the point he could withstand.
Running, trying to find others resisting,
but factually speaking, if you asked
he probably couldn't tell you
what he was actually seeking.
just tired of living life feeling like
he was gradually sinking, in quicksand.

my people, my people...
Pay attention to the lessons of old,
that still beats repetitive like drumrolls,
Before you can be exalted you must first be humbled.
Listen to the story of the youth that was told,
exposing the veil covering the truth enfold.
watch and see how the proof unfolds.
now uncontrolled they'll send troops to patrol.
this revolution will not be televised
but it will be sold. To the highest bidder it goes.
and whoever bids the low, will be left out
like trash that's withered and old.
in the blistering cold. With who? My people.

My people who were born in the struggle, raised by the buckle;
broken hopes leaving open souls in trouble,
lives left demolished, in stubble and ruin;
still, homes made out of the rubble, by genuine muscle.
My people.
Who have shined in dark places,
but slowly the space grows farther with time.
so I'll embark on my race,
and embrace this mark that binds, me.
with my people.