Blickety Black
This poem is blickety black.
Blacker than the hot comb with burnt grease and skin from the many times yo mama told you to hold yo ear, black.
Blacker than a midnight diner trip in the south to the Waffle House on MLK Blvd.
So black, that if the cook ain't got a cigarette on his ear and cussin' people out, you know it ain't bussin'. Black.
This poem is blackety black.
Black like the sight of pin curl up-dos,
Black being suffocated by olive oil hairspray,
Black like the gold tooth phase of Freaknik era,
Black like fanny pack came back on the hip.
You dip, I dip, you dip, we dip.
Don’t stop, get it, get it!
This poem is blickety black.
Blacker than you and yo’ cousins having an RnB sing-a-long to 90s RnB.
Blickety clacking blacking not lacking on when it comes to my rap game.
Spanning from “It was all a dream. I used to read word up magazine,”
To asking niggas to hold up wait a minute, ya’ll thought I was finished?”
Hold up, wait a minute. You thought this black affirmation was finished?!”
Man, I’m going Ultra Black!
I'm going Stupid Black!
This poem is the embodiment of black.
Black like the culture they try to steal from us.
Black like the voices they try to compete with.
Black like the records we set and they can’t keep up with.
Black like our lips they try to duplicate.
Black like my ass they try to replicate.
This poem so black, I think a Kardashian might try to claim it, black!
Negro like Chuck Berry did rock n’ roll.
Onyx like Rock Fire Funk Express punked rock.
Black like my naps and curls.
Black like my long acrylic nails.
Black like my gold bamboo earrings.
Black like the power in my name whether it be Brenda, LaTisha, Linda, Felicia, Dawn, Leshaun, Ines, and Alicia.
Black like my slang came with a swang.
Black like I wouldn’t be nothing else in this world.
Black like the void of space covering the vast surface so wide outside.
This poem is ebony.
This poem is Blickety Black.
This art is obsidian.
This black is us.
