VOTING MATTERS!

You can boo, yet still vote.  You can scream, yet still vote.  You can cry; vote.  If you can walk, vote.  And if you can run, vote.

A minimum of twenty five miles; now, you can just take an Uber.  Think about it, it’s human nature, to desire which you can’t have.  To desire what is just out of reach.  By any means necessary, we can get to the Promised Land.  From rap to house to jazz to funk, from crips to bloods, geeks to jocks and dark skin-ded to redbone, we’re all still Black and should all have one common goal.

Vote.

It’s shameful how the carrot is dangled in our faces, just out of reach for many but, it’s still there and still attainable.  Still grab-able if we just Kenny Bobien (Reach).

Put a rock in your shoe, let it move around and feel it, each step and keep on walking.  Walk some more but, don’t stop.  Go further.  How long can you last?  Then take another step, this one for Thomas Mundy Peterson, he did it.  Then another, for Emmet Till, he never could.  Pain breeds life, like childbirth, so breathe, and keep walking.  Movement.  Civilly.  Righteously.  Can’t stop; won’t stop, each step a memory of a pain greater than what you feel.  For a moment, where’s the rock?  Integration.  Then “ow,” Deaths at the hands of persons unknown.

A Black Life is running, with a rock in your shoe.  No time for rest for the pain is coming, sharp and exact.  But, Black Love is to keep running, regardless, Black Soul is strength to endure, regardless, Black Pride is the mindset to know why you’re running and Black Power is the finish line. Ninety-nine and a half won’t do.  Officially, there were 3,446 lynchings of Black Essence in America, so you have at least that many more steps to go for, if you stop now you’ll most likely still be nearly 10,000 short.  It’s not really a rock, it’s a mustard seed. The mind gets delirious as your sock bloodies, you believe so but, it’s not, it’s the sweat of your ancestors from their bare skin who ran from dogs but you, you run to the mouth of freedom.

Vote.

I am not my ancestor.  Naw, they did it.  These hands, are not calloused and bloody and sore, they did it.  Tongues bitten, nearly off and words choked so we can be here.  They voted, no, we’re definitely not our ancestors…

What will it take?  They’ve redistrict-ed you out of the picture, felon-ed you and took away your vote, money-ed you and took away your heart.  They nothing-ed you.  Yet, you still matter.

You can boo, yet still vote.  You can scream, yet still vote.  You can cry; vote.  If you can walk, vote.  And if you can run, vote.