I remember these words, three,
the spark of everyman’s dream.
A simple pioneer on the plain
sought out a home where he himself is free
(was it ever America to me?).
The welcoming arms of Liberty
fast from the schemes of kings.
A place for many to attain
land away from conniving tyranny
(it never was America to me).
Opportunity is real and life is free,
but better if it could be
possible to bring what it once claimed
and provide equality into the air we breathe
(there was nothing equal for my people
in their math not freedom in this “Land of the Free”).
There confusion residing within the
down trodden, underprivileged community
argues against the established aims.
That’s when it was asked of me:
“Say, who do you think you are?”
I am the First who didn’t know
land was something one could own.
I am the Last Bottle threatening to arrive
and encourage the last of the First to for
as he remains stuck in his reserved sanctuary,
watching the rain wash away his war paint.
I was kidnapped, I was sold
and others exploited my soul
(who am I kidding? They’re still doing it).
I am anger, I am pain.
These notions have infested my brain
for the better part of three centuries
and still, they ignore me.
Yet, I remember these words, three.
It rings true in their speech and their coverage,
in their dismissive labels slapped on every time
I refuse to die quietly.
Oh yes, these words, three.
But how can it be America
if I was never allowed to “Let Freedom Ring”?
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