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In the shadow of Newark’s bricks and bones,
Where the pavement hums with moans,
Where mothers pray with open eyes,
And sons are born beneath gray skies—
The blood remembers. The land remembers.
And still, the chain extends.

They paved the streets with redlines and lies,
Gave promises in powdered smiles,
Then pumped our schools with broken chalk,
And silenced dreams when we dared to talk.
They caged our fathers in policy’s grip,
Then blamed the homes they helped to strip.

This ain't neglect. This is design.
Oppression isn't random—it's signed,
Stamped, and sealed in the systems we breathe,
Where Black lives must hustle just to grieve.
We wear trauma like second skin,
From slave ships to state pens.

But listen—
This is not just their crime.
We, too, have danced in decline.
Some Black parents, too, must rise,
And stop mistaking survival for pride.
Raise kings who feel, and queens who lead,
Not just warriors bruised by need.
We must teach love before rage,
Wisdom beyond wage.
We must unlearn pain as legacy,
And burn every internal enemy.

Because the schools still rot.
The cops still hunt.
The housing crumbles.
The dealers front.
And every corner echoes, “This ain't fair.”
But fairness don't live here—only despair.

Unless—
We rise.

Not in silence, not alone.
But in numbers that shake the throne.
Not just marches, but policy.
Not just anger, but strategy.
Not just hashtags, but healing.
Not just grieving, but feeling.

This is a call to the chained and the chain-makers.
To the mothers and lawmakers.
To the boys dodging bullets and the men behind suits.
This is for Newark. For Camden. For every root
Still growing in poisoned soil—
This is for the ones who never got to grow.

Change ain’t coming.
Change is us.
And the system won’t fall
Until we all stand tall—
And make the mirror of America
See the face it tried to erase.
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