Let me be mad.
Let me be angry.
Let me use the words you are so scared of hearing.
You're so worried about pleasing everyone.
That you can't even remember your own emotion.
Suddenly it's about putting on a façade to not scare away potential allies.
Suddenly it's no longer about anger.
It's about making them comfortable.
Something PG-13.
Truth be told, not all my actions are for people.
Truth be told, my life isn't suitable for adult children.
R stands for raw in this R-rated adventure.
This country isn't rated for everyone's pleasure.
"Not fit for kids" may not win me a spot on your shelf of tokenism,
But it sure will win me one more key to freedom.
And there you will be,
Plastic smile and all,
Snatching the key from my hand,
Opening the door,
Pushing me aside,
So your smile is the first the camera captures on the other end,
While I fall back and guide my brothers and sisters through.
See, because my anger tends to develop into something beautiful.
You call yourself levelheaded,
With a practiced, plastic grin that never matches your eyes.
I call myself balanced,
By my emotion that dances with my body.
My anger can have my feet marchin' up and down mountains
Can have my steps chase out your passive liberalism.
My sadness can have my hands holding others,
Can have them lighting candles in every mourning soul.
My hope can have my mind strategizing for hours on end,
Can have it run on paper so others can read.
My determination can keep my body energized after hours of negotiations,
Can have it function at 3AM because each minute, each step,
Each breath leads me to the next door, the next window, the next ceiling.
Don't talk to me about baby steps
Grow the hell up. They're called stages.
Feel mad.
Feel sad.
Feel hopeful.
Feel determined.
Feel it with your entire body!
Maybe it will finally fix that botox look on your face,
Injected by the very people you want to please.
Don't be surprised when every key you receive or snatch doesn't work.
Or be surprised, uncomfortable smile, confused eyes and all.
But step aside because I'm going to push through the door anyway.
Go ahead and shale your head as the media labels me as impatient, angry, disorderly.
I'd rather crash and burn at the consequence of my own fire
Than the matches and fuel of those who only wish to broom away my ashes.
Awareness of stages.
Senses of time.
Let these be my feet, my hands, my mind, my body.
Let anger, sadness, hope, determination be the beats that my life dances to.
Let my song be truth, even if people find it raw and under parental advisory.
Your fabricated, safe lyrics may win you a Grammy.
Mine will begin a revolution.
But even as the bodies dance to this rhythm of resistance,
I will continue to ask you to join me.
Let me be angry.
Let me use the words you are so scared of hearing.
You're so worried about pleasing everyone.
That you can't even remember your own emotion.
Suddenly it's about putting on a façade to not scare away potential allies.
Suddenly it's no longer about anger.
It's about making them comfortable.
Something PG-13.
Truth be told, not all my actions are for people.
Truth be told, my life isn't suitable for adult children.
R stands for raw in this R-rated adventure.
This country isn't rated for everyone's pleasure.
"Not fit for kids" may not win me a spot on your shelf of tokenism,
But it sure will win me one more key to freedom.
And there you will be,
Plastic smile and all,
Snatching the key from my hand,
Opening the door,
Pushing me aside,
So your smile is the first the camera captures on the other end,
While I fall back and guide my brothers and sisters through.
See, because my anger tends to develop into something beautiful.
You call yourself levelheaded,
With a practiced, plastic grin that never matches your eyes.
I call myself balanced,
By my emotion that dances with my body.
My anger can have my feet marchin' up and down mountains
Can have my steps chase out your passive liberalism.
My sadness can have my hands holding others,
Can have them lighting candles in every mourning soul.
My hope can have my mind strategizing for hours on end,
Can have it run on paper so others can read.
My determination can keep my body energized after hours of negotiations,
Can have it function at 3AM because each minute, each step,
Each breath leads me to the next door, the next window, the next ceiling.
Don't talk to me about baby steps
Grow the hell up. They're called stages.
Feel mad.
Feel sad.
Feel hopeful.
Feel determined.
Feel it with your entire body!
Maybe it will finally fix that botox look on your face,
Injected by the very people you want to please.
Don't be surprised when every key you receive or snatch doesn't work.
Or be surprised, uncomfortable smile, confused eyes and all.
But step aside because I'm going to push through the door anyway.
Go ahead and shale your head as the media labels me as impatient, angry, disorderly.
I'd rather crash and burn at the consequence of my own fire
Than the matches and fuel of those who only wish to broom away my ashes.
Awareness of stages.
Senses of time.
Let these be my feet, my hands, my mind, my body.
Let anger, sadness, hope, determination be the beats that my life dances to.
Let my song be truth, even if people find it raw and under parental advisory.
Your fabricated, safe lyrics may win you a Grammy.
Mine will begin a revolution.
But even as the bodies dance to this rhythm of resistance,
I will continue to ask you to join me.
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