ibadila
by mike

Sometimes I think I speak a different language
Because when I converse
I must convert my words
And yet I still go unheard
When I dialogue in my dialect instead
I get rejected
And when all is said and done
I still have to say “you know what I’m sayin, son?”
But my sons and moons don’t shine
Because they can’t even understand my rhymes
And I’m reminded of the times I tried to make sense
And couldn’t even come up with a dime
Or a penny for my thoughts
And it makes me think that maybe I speak a different language
Because when I speak out
My words are pushed backed in
As if my thoughts were my sin
And my only redemption
Is a confession upon the altar of altered alphabets and colonized dialects
But in the church of choked English
My prayers will go unanswered
I refuse to worship the “holy” texts
Embedded in dictionary sets
That proclaim the word of Webster.
Instead their words are swallowed
Because I refuse to spit in their contra-diction
Or to sell their fiction
Instead I slang back tradition
I spit back my writtens
Sit back and listen
Or stand in the circle as we de-cypher our visions
Decoding our dreams
Breaking through with the beatbox
Speaking in tongues
And communicating through hip-hop
If my consonants are commitments
Let my letters be a-vowels
If alone I am unheard,
Let my people be my power
If ignorance holds me down
Let the truth be my elevator
And if these lyrics are my language
Let the mic be my translator.