"A World Gone Mad"
Yeah…
Can someone tell me where it all went wrong?
Where the world finally lost it.
When it became cool to say "Nigga" and not think twice about where it came from.
When it became cool to try and be "ghetto."
To try and strive to be…poor.
To live back in a time where one man was hell bent on an Aryan nation, dividing families and forcing them into disease ridden conditions.
But…I'm sorry. I forgot. Its bad ass to be a drug dealer…making all this money and still being…poor.
Living off welfare checks and driving a Jaguar.
Being up on the latest fashion, dripping in gold…no wonder why you live in the ghetto.
And I walk down the street, past 14 year olds with babies…
Past guys in ugly ass dropped down suped up Honda Civics.
Hey…guess what?
Your car is still a piece of shit.
Hey, guess what?
I'm not the type of chick you can fuck for a night.
Whispering the "Baby, I love you's" and the "I'll always be there's."
Brainwashing me into believe that I'm more than just some lay to you.
More than just some fuck to you.
That you'll be there when the sun rises over that city sky line.
At least…that's what you got them to believe, right?
With your charming poisoned lies…
So I sit back…
Watching.
Waiting.
For something new to happen.
When these damn white boys will stop trying to be a product of their enviornment.
"Yo baby" this and "Holla back" that.
When the girls will stop giving themselves a bad name by spreading their legs instead of their minds.
When a teacher will make more than the pop star they taught.
When will it all change?
Because I refuse to bring a child into a world where gun shots speak louder than words.
Where fists fly and…
Decent people die and…
Gangs have more influence than education.
Where a person would rather pick up a gun than a book or a pen…
Rather pull the trigger than write.
To shoot a bullet than shoot words that won't end up on the 10 o' clock news.
Permanent picture of a devastated mother.
Beaten and broken.
Red eyed from tokin' up.
So…I look at my skin.
Where do I fit in?
Not rich…not poor…
Which box to I check off?
Not black enough.
Not white enough.
Not Hispanic enough.
And there is no "All of the above" box either.
But…my skin isn't as white as yours.
Not as brown as yours.
My thick hair might give me away…
If you look close enough…you just might find some street in my eyes.
In my frustrated cries.
Because I want to make something of myself.
I am more than just a government number.
More than just a statistic on the chart of the American Minorities.
But…I wasn't raised in the ghetto so I'm too white bred to be street.
I didn't grow up in suburbia so I'm too ghetto to be white bred.
So what am I?
I'll tell you.
Let you in on the "All About Me" section of my life.
I got curly hair on my head.
Thick hips and nice lips.
Green eyes and smooth skinned thighs.
I'll paint my own nails because I don't have the money for a manicure.
I wear glasses because I can't see.
And these bracelets…they hide the scars of my past.
I'm not afraid of food…and it doesn't really show but I got meat on these bones.
Cross me, I'll bitch you out.
Touch me, I'll knock you down.
So why does it matter where I live or what I am?
But I see it everyday…the rage…the anger.
Suicide.
Homicide.
Genocide.
Death at the hands of a world gone mad.
So come back to me when you have something to say that's worth listening to.
When you do something that's worth watching.
I don't care what color your skin is.
What rep you have.
What gang you're in.
Who you've shot.
Fought with.
The money in your pocket.
The clothes on your back.
The shoes on your feet.
I don't care about that…
Only that you can write.
That you can read.
If you plan on becoming something more than what the streets told you to be.
I'll care then.
Until that day…its now or never.
So die trying or don't try at all.
