On cold rainy mornings I feel like we have a lot of time. Let's just lay here a bit longer, we have time. Let's just listen to the rain a little while longer, as we drift in and out of two worlds. Let me wrap my fingers around yours just a little tighter, keep me warm, there's no rush, we have time. I like to listen to the sound of your breathing. Exhaling sighs of sadness inhaling silent hopeful vibrations.

On warm rainy days I want to sit with you by a lake. Feeling cool droplets against our skin, soaking our clothes through, no need to worry, there's no rush, we have time. We try to make out the distorted versions of our truest selves reflected in the water. I could stare all day, the air is clear there, empty. Washed clean. I breathe, deeply, trying to fill my lungs with all of the sweet scents. I am mindful of each raindrop as it hits the water. Do you hear them like I do? They are quiet, they are clear, they are hopeful. Let's just be, here, a little while longer, we have time.

New cause, same old effect

An instant (Dis)connect

We Pause but don’t reflect

It’s easier to reject

False words, no sentiment

Hash tags with empty text

Might share, but soon forget

REAL-ity’s hard to accept

It don’t match your aesthetic

Is change just a concept?

for our fate, prophets have wept

Prioritize, but then neglect

Life passed while we have slept

As if this debt won’t come collect

I’ll pray our quotas met

To live/life we must connect

There’s so much worth living for,

I promise you that.

And I ain’t done living yet

Yeah I get it, Hip hop has saved your life too.

But dig this-
It made mine.
The congregation of ghetto gospel that I grew up with wasn't preaching to your upper middle class suburban white grandad.
It is the funkified call to those who were down and out.
Tears of rhythm and beats of blues for those who can't cry.
Yet ALL YOU DO is cry about how it should be for everyone.
(By everyone, you mean you.)
So fine, we cut you one more slice of the soul pie.
(Nïeve oversight on our part)
Because lo and behold,
While we were serving your greedy asses,
Y'all up and stole the ingredients from our kitchen
Now white boy Tom is rocking a dashiki he copped from forever21
While his girlfriend Karen flashes her new boxer braids and bamboo earrings.
All while driving down the avenue to their newly "acquired" brownstone, blasting NWA in their 2019 leased Honda Accord.
"hashtag, FUCK DA POLICE Y'ALL."
Oh wait hold up, hoooold up. Ahw Becky's offended.
(She would tweet about the shocking and unwarranted reverse racism she received, but she hasn't figured out how to type with her new Acrylic nails she just got from the Koreans up the block.)

Don't fret "Gurl", I'ma break it down for you.
See, y'all stole the ingredients, but everyone knows Karen can't bake. So y'all can steal our neighborhoods, our blocks, our homes, our music, our clothes, our accessories and our vernacular. Real talk, y'all can even steal our men. No matter how you slice that pie, it's still gonna taste like shit.
But you're starting to look a little pitiful so I'll clue you in to the secret ingredient.
It's salt.
But wait, not just any salt. This that kinda salt that comes from years of being ridiculed and mocked. A special kinda salt that was sifted from the waters my ancestors Waded in. It's a salt that was found on the street my uncle was on when he got arrested for being black and making a u-turn. It's a kinda salt that formed when it mixed with the rocks your people put in to our Hoods. A salt that comes from the tears of anger we shed when  innocent brown lives are taken away too soon.  A salt that is formed through centuries of being objectified and fetishized, yet hated and mistreated. It's the kinda salt you start sweating when you're alone somewhere and the only other person in sight is a cop.
Let's just say it ain't the kinda salt you can buy at Trader Joe's.
If you have no experience with the salt I'm talking about then listen to me closely,
THAT. SHIT. AIN'T. FOR. YOU.
Don't get it twisted, this is not a PSA solely directed at white people.
It don't matter if you're paler than a saltine or darker than midnight, if you can't relate on a personal level, I'ma need you to do us all a favor and dead all that mess quick.
You can call it "Urban aesthetic". Call it "The Culture"  but in actuality it is a fantasy. A fantasy of being Ghetto without Ghetto People's Problems. It is a fantasy of being black without the stigma and prejudice that comes with the skin tone. We aren't playing pretend with your asses no damn more.
If no one has told you yet, let me be the one to do it;
I ain't ya sis
You ain't my nigga
I don't care about whatever "Crapper" inspires you, and I care even less about your one dumb black friend who once said it ain't a big deal to them.
I'm not them, and no matter what you do, you never will be them either.
So just go on and find another culture to steal already.
How's that for woke?