Lying Down and Waking Up a Slave in Texas

It’s poetic…

In Texas, we’re trapped in pits with small widdows.

Inside these cells, we’re funding our own imprisonment;

the chains are encrypted inside the chips and soup sales.

We’re inside of an identity crisis believing our souls out of favors,

So we accept the chains;

believing a greater change will come save us…

Can you dig that?!?!

I guess that Willie Lynch Syndrome dies hard in some places.

Since I’m older now,

In these younger guys I see my own reflection.

It seems as if the hate for ourselves is baked in

Perhaps it takes breaking one down,

in order to build one up and to make a man.

I used to beat up on myself!

The whipping took away my strength…

Then I killed my bad habits and drug ‘em to a ditch!

I changed from a threat to a promise;

but in Texas I’ll always be a number/

Every day it’s the same old song…

In doubt: our systematic-scars found a home.

In Texas: It’s death before parole.

In unity: we can overcome!

But we won’t…

Because by the throat we’re holding our resolve

under the water.

Christians and Muslims accept this torture.

The trauma cemented the bangers in a corner;

Set-tripping, cooking drink and getting stoned.

I envision us standing up for ourselves,

and not being exploited with little to no health care.

But tomorrow we’ll be back in the “Fields,”—

under a sun giving off heat like hell!

There ain’t a night I don’t look beyond these walls—with cataract

eyes, and pull in the stars.

Today’s a blessing…

Every good one I’ll record them.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up behind these bars.

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