A Message to My Last Messiahs

Luke 12:49-53

I am come to send fire on the earth; and what will I, if it be already kindled? But I have a baptism to be baptized with; and how am I straitened till it be accomplished!Suppose ye that I am come to give peace on earth? I tell you, Nay; but rather division: For from henceforth there shall be five in one house divided, three against two, and two against three.The father shall be divided against the son, and the son against the father; the mother against the daughter, and the daughter against the mother; the mother in law against her daughter in law, and the daughter in law against her mother in law.



Who are we to the world?


Another sun laid under the moon tonight as his blood poured out in the street. Across the ocean, many more suns and earths are shot, bombed, raped and maimed. Daughters of kings cry until their life ends and sons of queens look in a daze as they watch the will of another overtake what they’ve yet to know was theirs.


We are crucified for the sins of others. Who are we to the world?


Our energy harvested, every misdeed done against the last messiahs make the wicked feel stronger; every ounce of blood spilled by those that agree to evil, take communion and make bread from the broken bodies. And yet still miracles are performed. Still the will to stand up, still the will to create more people and build families, still the desire to be more than just another image made in the likeness of those that died before us.


And to what avail will it cost the world, that it loses its soul at the death of each one of us?


The earth loses its soul at the death of each one of us.


Where is salvation from the cross that we bear?
Who said this was our cross to bear?
Where is the judgment against those who sacrificed our children to bring division between us?


Generations before claim we’re doing it wrong even though there’s no difference in death as both the old and young are being slaughtered; the elders are slaughtered with complacency and the youth assassinated by state-supported programs. An example from times past and ages to come, how many times has the world been set on fire due to the division created to choose between life and man-made laws? Is socio-economic codes of legalese more important than the lives it strives to stifle?


Who are we dying for? Are we the sacrifice for those who trespass against us?


How many times throughout the story of spiritual trial and human error do we have to do this? How many times do we have to die for the sake of “progress?”


When did violence become the order of the day?
When did self-defense become shunned?
When did sacrifice of the very life you need to love, become a form of love?


Step back and look at what billions have come to agree upon: that you are to die for the shortcomings of a people who cannot conceive how you are still here. Millions around the world wonder how you have survived being at the neck of your enemy and still find the strength to hope and have faith. A story told during every astrological age about you and how you would die so that others could live.


Who are you? Who are we to the world? Will we die and leave the world in wonder of if or when we’ll return or will we find strength in our divinity to withstand this trial until blood no longer falls from our bodies and we overcome the lynch mobs that try to turn us into the scapegoat for their mischief?


You are not a sacrifice.
Your life matters.


To my last messiahs: be the final call to order for this place. Let no further division come between you and your parents and your children for the sake of a people who’d rather see your past wiped from memory and future wiped from prosperity. It is a crime for the wicked to make you be their god and praise the fact that you die every day, despite what way of luxury and privilege you made for them, so that they can live their fantasies of a world free from your beautiful faces. As many of us have heard before, we are not at war with flesh and blood but with spiritual wickedness in high places; places that aim to make a profit off of your death and sell the story of your lifeless body to future generations to only say “these people died so that you could live,” in hopes that you resurrect only so that they kill you again.


May you be the last messiahs, that no one else dies so that wickedness and falsehood can live. Re-write this story so that it will never, EVER have the same ending again.


I love you all. You are chosen.

Mind-Fucked: Rap, Rape and the Mental Collapse of Women


“Fuckin’ hoes since I was ten/Puttin in, pullin out and then I do it again/bitches touching me like I’m Case, make ’em feel so good like Mase and 3 days later, I’m talkin shit to their face…”


–from the rap “One Life to Live” written by Sasha (13 yrs old)


It’s no surprise that music and it’s lyrics become the moniker for how many live out their lives. Music is the banner by which many take up their personas, unmethodically assuming characters expressed by the vocalist and the images projected through their lyrics. We live these designs through our mind and eventually, they become manifested in our day to day lives.

The concept of rape (physically, spiritually and mentally) has been indoctrinated from youth.

When I was thirteen, rappers in 1998 had expressed themselves to a level where there was a no-holds bar construct and “keeping it real can never go wrong.” The lyricist within the mainstream sect of rap music, by this time, had assumed personalities of Italian-mafia druglords, spending money from ill-gotten gain and enjoying the pleasures of the best alcohol, women and weed. And with parents who threw out my CDs at every purchase, it was my desire to listen to this music out of straight rebellion.


The rhyme shared above was just a sliver of lyrics from a two-page rap that I wrote at the age of thirteen, pretending that I was a ghostwriter for a male lyricist. In my head, I composed what I thought a man who was in the “rap-game” at the current time would say and that people would like. From the “fuck bitches” to “gettin’ money” to “shootin’ niggas” M.O. that ran rampant in that era of popular rap, I thought that’s what would garner the most listeners. Subconsciously, my personality adopted this mindset as a young girl and I soon took on both the male and female identities presented in the music: aggressively dominant and sexually submissive.



In a male-dominated society, the authority presented in rap lyrics that present such concepts puts its listeners at the helm of making a decision about how they choose to conduct themselves. If we were to analyze this thought, we’d see that people were/are choosing to conduct themselves by way of the lifestyles presented. Though claimed to be entertainment and projections of fantasy, the people who are expressing these ideas are real and the materials accumulated from these ideas are real. At 17, I found myself desiring the “thug-life” and the men that lived this lifestyle; my boyfriend at the time was a drug-dealer who allotted me the experience of enjoying the gains from his “work.” It was only a matter of time before things got too real and a good friend was killed, one of my homegirl’s chose the game over college and I slowly watched my little brothers take on the personas of the men that were beginning to turn me off.


Sadly, this reality was formed by decisions of fantasy, embedded in the mind of a girl who chose to embrace the role of a woman through the depiction by popular rap music instead of what her mother was showing her. It was this very reason why my father threw out my CDs until he just got tired of fighting me (plus Napster had found its way into our home and I knew he wasn’t going to throw the computer out.) It cannot be denied that there is a program being projected through lyrics that only garners mainstream appeal when demoralizing a woman while outlining her purpose to be that of arm candy or sexual pleasure. This “mindfuck” has been occurring for a long time, even before rap, and the mental rape of women through rhymes of conditioning them to accept the idea that their mind, body and soul belongs to anyone who chooses her sets the precedent for a physical rape that even then, has the potential to be excused by both the woman and the assailant.


The concept of rape (physically, spiritually and mentally) has been indoctrinated from youth. Will it end? Who knows. In my eyes, it’ll be either when the Father comes or I die and unfortunately, that’s the program that many women live with all of their lives. As for a solution, encouraging music that projects different images are vital to a healthy mentality about the woman would be vital for both the male and female construct, thus potentially planting seeds for healthier relationships between them. The question is: do we want to hear music that exalts a cultural perspective different from the one we’ve established or is that just too far-fetched for this society?


the questions.

Twisted “Miss” Ogyny

In a nation where political correctness is taught like ABC’s, I’m pretty much not giving a fuck about none of that.


I’m coming straight off the top about what we have allowed because people let their confusion run rampant in the streets. I have witnessed a number of homosexual men and transvestites trip, losing all of what is left of their given senses and disrespect women to a level that makes me say “enough is enough.”


This could potentially go into all the gay rights and civil liberties and all that but I won’t because I know some of ya’ll sensitive and I really prefer to stay out of your delusion. But this right here, it has to be addressed. Many homosexual men have found allies in women as they want to identify with our gender so much. The overemphasis in speech and gestures, the feelings of needing to compensate through compliments on all of our physicality…we see through all of that and while we look like “Nigga please” we still support because we are that loyal to men; that even in their rejection of our womanhood yet desire to assume it, we still offer the feminine aspect that they will never have. That’s what women do. We’re just trill like that.


However, don’t get it twisted “boo boo” as I hear some of my sistas say. And that especially goes for those men who like to play dress up and go so far as to have their dick flipped inside out: you are not a woman so don’t try me. To be so comfortable that you continue to take the assumed authority of being “cross-gendered” and play both sides by being effeminate when challenged by men and masculine when challenged by women…look, bruh: know your role. With a world that has taken the mere idea of a woman and beaten her design to a pulp; to sell her as a commodity for sex; to put fear into her so much as she keeps silent about being raped or sexually assaulted, the last thing that we EVER wanna deal with is a man who is between ideas about who he is, disrespecting the very concept that he wants to be.


Misogyny is real. Men, both hetero- and homosexual have taken their dicks and fucked us as if we don’t exist. Now, let this be known, in the war that is occurring in this realm both physical and spiritual, there ain’t too much room left to be “nice.” Now, for you men who are laying down, do what you do: that ain’t my ass to worry about. But please be aware that you are a man, regardless of what you do and we are women. There will be no disrespect because in all realness, we’re probably your last ally on this god-forsaken earth…so don’t push us. We won’t be so open-minded that our brains fall out.


I’m sleep tho.

Committed to the Asylum – An Intro to Peace

i’m the type to align words with war when the world don’t seem right
asked the Father for the right to use my writing as a way to make a way in this place
traded the faces of Jackson and Benjamin for scripts, leaving scripture to be washed by tears from my pen
the sin of trading a gift for gold left my present depleted
so I began to seek
wanted to return to the way of the ink
the Sun Tzu of the former link
click the Bic and see what web it weaved
left my thoughts like a blot on loose leaf
blogs never seen me cuz Mead owned me
I was a slave to the art
turned my words into a sword and slayed the naysayers who dared to say something
kept pumpin until I got dumped by employers
well more like I jumped ship cuz it was never my mission
they say you work for pay well it was easier to pray for work
that way I knew it was from God
took no time for me to go stupid, went on a true flip from corporate climbing to being a flight risk from city to city
nickel and diming, selling icies while trying to make it in that glittery limelight where musicians sell their craft to witches and stick their dicks in prostitutes for praise/
went about my way and made it home
once again, the rolling stone trespassed the gates of hell hoping to make a deal with Satan just to keep him at bay
no not sell my soul but separate my fate from the fantasy of making it in the land of “can we get free, will I grow old as a slave?”

took two years to see what liberty means/

consider this submission my voluntary imprisonment/

committed to the asylum for the sake of seeking peace/

the return to papyrus sheets and quills dipped in blood to make it real/

watch how trill it gets with the thoughts that I spill/

shouts to Owl for making the deal with a mental criminal who knows no subliminals/

literally speaking, I’m figuratively leaking/nothing bleak shall inherit the earth cuz worth after birth is like placenta, just girth/

push that weight out with every word I let out/

asking the Father for a breath as I died a long time ago when I sold my gifts for a bit of bread/

the rats took my cheese after a particular tax season so instead I cash my checks and keep my dough in the oven for a reason/

I’mma leave this, but blessed be the ones who read this cuz after all the ego, being schizo is a relief/

i’m committed to the asylum in an effort to seek peace but if destruction comes before I’m healed then pray the Lord, my soul, He keeps.



Loyalty To Rich Niggas: The New “White” Man


I swear, if it ain’t one thing, it’s another. I’m starting to give up on you people and get my stuff together like those doomsday preppers because I’m sure one of ya’ll are bound to kill me before the government does.


Why do I say this?


Because “Black” people have lost what sensible mind they had left. When 2008 came, people lost their freaking mind because of an identity crisis. I’ve come to learn that this state of emergency will not be televised but perhaps realized when your sons or daughters threaten your life for correcting them or something weak like that. This loyalty to rich niggas has to stop. Straight up. Its killing us. All of us. Everybody. From Barack Obama to Lil Wayne and everybody in between that you put up on a pedestal but don’t want to hold accountable for their speech and actions, this has to stop.


Listen, “Black” people, “African-American,” people of color…whatever you want to call yourselves, this trying to find identity in others that are your shade that continuously throw shade at you is getting beyond ridiculous. The timely pacification of each generation is terribly noticeable and the ignorant bellowing of “that’s racist!” because someone makes a critic of one of your beloved gods continues to kindle my anger.


How do you defend somebody that continues to make a fool out of you? Huh? How do you do it?


I don’t get that. The pride that I inherited from my people throughout the centuries ain’t go for that. Do you not know about the dignity from which you came? Do you not know about the past mistakes that your forefathers committed so that you could learn and not repeat the same foolishness. I’m wondering, with all the information we have out here, readily available to us and the percentage of us who can read the American Standard English Language being greater than it was in 1849, why is it that you don’t know better by now?


Why is it that the most culture you recognize is what is captured on 50 minute increments on VH1 and the 28 days allotted for “Black History Month?” Why did our history have to start in 2008 when a nigga ya’ll never heard of swept you off ya’ feet like he was Disney’s monarch Prince Charming? Why do our “model citizens” have to be people that emphasize selling drugs to our own, that gyrate their vaginas or speak of beating the lining out of one?


You degenerates. You cry for ten minutes when they kill one of our children in the streets but then shake your ass when the dead child’s name is dropped in the newest club record (Shout out to William Leonard Roberts fat ass for that disgusting Trayvon Martin plug while the boy was fresh in the ground.) And now, add Lil’ Wayne and his oh-so-clever use of Emmett Till’s face (who, might I add, none of us would have never known the depravity of how beaten and mutilated he was if his mother didn’t have the courage and strength to show the world what those mongrels did to her child.)


Your loyalty to niggas because of their color and monetary status is sickening and disturbing. Disturbing in the fact that what will be defended will be Lil’ Wayne’s use of…whatever the hell he uses to put those basic, monotonous entendres together. Because I’m a master of double-speak and all things bull$#!+ (I’m burdened with this task, for ya’lls sake) I know a person’s spoken intent and their true intent. And with this, the intent is simple: to unforgivingly feed you another “hot line” to another “hot song” of another “hot album” that’ll be embedded in your mental file cabinet and probably in your iTunes at the cost of $9.99.


You will be more ready to defend Lil’ Wayne over the memory of Emmett Till. Why? Because Lil’ Wayne is your culture. Lil’ Wayne is your role model. Lil’ Wayne is the example of the exceptions, not the rule so people have ruled this as acceptable because they too, aspire to be the exception. Emmett Till is not your culture anymore. Lil’ Wayne is. Throw Kanye in that bunch too as he was one of the last rappers to allude to the deceased, comparing his swollen face to a young boy who was MURDERED for whistling at a “white” woman. I’m sure his drop got a pass, as in retrospect, an inflamed jaw is not comparable in disrespect, as say, a half-mutilated vagina.


“Yo, at least that nigga got money, he can say whatever he want…what you got? What you doing?”


Well, if it was certain that “gettin money” would excuse me of my moral and ethical responsibility to this society, well, I’d probably wouldn’t be snitching on my constituents by this piece I’m writing here. I’d probably be lauding you with reasons as to why this should be excused and the “positives” of a drug-induced rape culture and then clicking champagne glasses with the President and the rest of his JeWISH flunkies. Because, rest-assured, they aren’t getting money with you. They’re not even getting money like you. They’re getting your money (and energy…and mind…and comprehension) like “whitey.” Because “white” means “right.”


I bet Emmett Till, although young and inexperienced in matters of commerce as he was just fourteen when he was brutally murdered, knew that “whitey” had his hands in all the pots and pans. He witnessed this racism, as racism is the impeding of someone to attain status, wealth, acquiring of land or participation of government due to the color of their skin.


Now, if applied to today, the niggas you are so dedicated and loyal to, and base your culture around are racist. They sell you stories of how they “started from the bottom” (the new “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” slogan); they find any kind of avenue to make money off of you, they employ methods to keep you from investing and educating yourself about the things that matter such as the components to community and nation-building which include: law, economics, town infrastructure, agriculture, etc; and they promote media bonanzas that push propaganda that encourages you to continue participating in a beat-you-til-you’re-dead system.


Now if that doesn’t sound like some mid-20th century “white man” shit, I don’t know what does!


$#!+ ain’t changed. But hey, it doesn’t matter because as long as they’re a rich “Black” “African-American”, “person of color,” they deserve rose petals thrown on the street like these niggas is “King Jaffe Joffer” or somebody huh?


So much for culture. The most culture you people know is the filth that continues to spread to the next generation. You people ain’t leaving nothing for these kids but some mixtapes and an “I voted” sticker, smh.


I’m disgusted. Get real and get right. Sick of this stupid shit.


– The Former “Blackness”, Not the Latter.

(Sasha Vann)

“What’d You Expect?” – The dilemma when aggrandizing bull$#!+

You know….I’m tired.


Stupidity is tiresome.


No…I’m not stupid, but I internalize people and people are stupid so therefore I’m tired.


I didn’t watch the Republican National Convention last night because I knew that it would be a forlorn conglomerate of people who would consort to meeting at a Klu Klux Klan rally if the connotations didn’t present them as “racist.” And I knew that if watching, a spirit of anger would arise, not from the effortless propoganda and empty exhortations that was being relayed, but for the fact that I was wasting my precious time by watching it.


Unfortunately, watching Twitter is like watching TV. Somewhere between Ann Romney’s allegiance to women that look like her speech and Chris Christie’s “I want all of America to experience the Jersey Shore life” rhetoric, some one allegedly (even though I don’t put it past them) threw peanuts at a Black camerawoman from CNN and said the words “This is how we feed the animals.”




I wasn’t silent though. I laughed. Yes, as a woman of color, I laughed. I think that I may have been the only one to see the oxymoron in the actions of the moron that consorted to this action. But instead of most people seeing what is obviously natural behavior of those types who attend circus shows like any political party convention (but for this case, we’ll focus on the Barnum & Bailey sponsored RNC), episodes of shock and awe flooded my Twitter timeline.


Stupid, stupid, stupid.


What do you expect people? Black people especially…what do you expect? Are you expecting more from people who have willfully submitted themselves to the hypnotism of upper elites? Or, are you also expecting more as you’re under the hypnotism of an echelon of people who conspire to theatrics and entertainment in your name’s sake? I mean, how are you even moved at this point of racist antics and other atrocities induced by an apparently manipulative, inferior-minded people? The expectations for folks of this passion to behave any more civilized is like asking a lizard to walk upright because it’s more becoming.


*side mouf* ..Face it folks. Just as it’s not in that salamander’s nature to walk on its hind parts, neither is it in the nature of a human being (white or black) who has been indoctrinated with separatist ideas based on race and class to treat another human being (despite race or class) with respect. It’s just not going to happen. You’ll be better off insuring yourself with some snacks and preparing yourself for a show. So go ahead and tie these convention spoofs with the latest episode of Love & Hip Hop: Atlanta and call it for what it is: bullshit. Just remember that while you’re popping cracker jacks and repeatedly telling yourself “I can’t believe what I’m watching,” attempting to convince others that one is entertainment and the other is of national importance, go look in the mirror and say:



“Olivia”: The Song The Whispers Should Have Yelled

What is the world coming to?
So many are used and abused/
There’s over ten million girls, who are lost in this world/
What will your kinfolks say?
Olivia, the slave/
It must be tearing their heart in two/
Listen close, they’re calling you (Olivia, Olivia)

Olivia the slave, got distracted on her way, to grandmother’s house/
A wolf in lamb’s clothing came,
Blew her mind and changed her ways/
And now she’s turned out/
Lost and turned out…

—(from the song “Olivia (Lost & Turned Out) by The Whispers, 1978)

Many Olivias sat in front of the television last night, critiquing loudly the atrocities shown on VH1 while silently comparing every aspect of their lives wondering, “am I like these women?” And chances that the answer to that monolithic question is more than likely “yes,” simply because the eye has committed to the actions seen and actuated the process in the mind. It’s science by Steven Spielberg and Nicholas Rothschild. Go learn.

Ok, so maybe the plot to keep Black women under the trance of baby daddies, the come-up and the redefined role of a whore might not be by the conspiracy of two Jew-mongrels but in the same, mongrels have become the incestuous breed of Olivias who marry the idea that “I can be like them without being like them” with the unfortunate generational behaviors that go unidentified and uncorrected.

I sat and looked at my Twitter timeline, my heart being shredded on a mandolin of “Girl, she’s a hot-ass mess” and “he’s just a trifling, no good man.” I was sick from the self-deception; that the Olivia on the screen wasn’t a mirror image of those watching; that under all the misdirected bashing were Black women who identified with the situations so abhorrently displayed on that screen. I watched the comments, cringing at each scroll upwards, knowing that the so-called disgust expressed on my timeline was only going to be translated into similar dialogue after changing the channel to another identity-warping program that had no intention on projecting a better image of women with integrity and upstanding decision-making skills. I wanted to unfollow every person that commented on that Love & Hip Hop: Atlanta show because their presence in my timeline was making me question my own self-worth and wanting to identify with the populous. Then I had to make a decision:

I put the phone down.

Like my foot, smack, the law or anything else that fits in that colloquial phrase it was crucial that I turned away from what the disheartening “conversation” of my Twitter community and focus on paint swatches. Something. Anything other than that. Because in the end, what else can be said about a subject so beaten and worn like the vagina of a Rosie the Riveter figure who gave the prostitutes a chance to recoup when the soldiers got back from war? A decision, once again, to watch a group of depraved women who continue to make bad choices based on the apparent need of actuated love and redirection to ideals that not only work for Black women, but work for any woman who is being prepared for a man who is also being prepared for matrimony and nation-building. This is what has been said, what needs to be said, and some, time and time again. Because of the way of the universe, if you’re not part of the solution, then you are a part of the problem and endorsing [watching] the continuous obstruction of mental correction of young women is only showing the networks that you WANT to be lost; that you want your time to be taken up by a bunch of people who don’t make sense and want you to have an opinion about their motions that don’t make sense. Lost and turned out 2.0.

People are going to do what they want to do, no doubt; do they know why they do the things that they seemingly want to do though? Of course not. Is that part of their list of “wants”? Lord, please let it be. Media hypnosis has once again drowned out the whispers of those who know best and bolstered the cackling calls of ghetto darlings who would much rather be called urban because it sounds better. C’mon people. This really does not have to be the “world in which we live.” Perception of the perception is making it that way and those that give the thumbs up to the networks to keep the crap coming are only waiting to reproduce children who only know bullshit.


Now. Learn how to say no and holla at an Olivia the next time you see one. She probably needs GPS.