Ali Afshar, Professionally Known as Black Scorpion Music, is an Iranian Music Producer,Composer And Audio Engineer. Ali was born in karaj, on 26 December 1985, and studied law at azad university tehran. He started releasing his own Instrumental Music on all streaming platforms such as Spotify, Apple Music, Itunes, Deezer, Tidal, Amazon Music, Boomplay, Youtube Music and other music websites and platforms in early February 2018. Ali creates a real and fantasy story behind each pieces and tries to present the audience as a film. (Sudden Stop In The Skull Station) Overview : Full Name: Ali Afshar Nick Name: Black Scorpion Music Born: December 26, 1985 in Karaj, Iran Nationality: Iranian Years Active: 2012 - Present Education: Azad University Tehran North Branch Genre: House music, Trance music, Electronic Height: 1.85 m Weight: 92 Kg Black Scorpion Music - Santorini Black Scorpion Music - Sniper Black Scorpion Music - Diamond Black Scorpion Music - Highway Black Scorpion Music - Password Black Scorpion Music - Night Storm Black Scorpion Music - Shadow Black Scorpion Music - Hypnosis Black Scorpion Music - Savage Black Scorpion Music - Countdown Black Scorpion Music - Kingslayer Black Scorpion Music - Penthouse Black Scorpion Music - High Heeled Black Scorpion Music - Quantum Black Scorpion Music - Fingerprint Black Scorpion Music - Matrix Black Scorpion Music - Morphine
Ali Afshar, Professionally Known as Black Scorpion Music, is an Iranian Music Producer,Composer And Audio Engineer. Ali was born in karaj, on 26 December 1985, and studied law at azad university tehran. He started releasing his own Instrumental Music on all streaming platforms such as Spotify, Apple Music, Itunes, Deezer, Tidal, Amazon Music, Boomplay, Youtube Music and other music websites and platforms in early February 2018. Ali creates a real and fantasy story behind each pieces and tries to present the audience as a film. (Sudden Stop In The Skull Station) Overview : Full Name: Ali Afshar Nick Name: Black Scorpion Music Born: December 26, 1985 in Karaj, Iran Nationality: Iranian Years Active: 2012 - Present Education: Azad University Tehran North Branch Genre: House music, Trance music, Electronic Height: 1.85 m Weight: 92 Kg Black Scorpion Music - Santorini Black Scorpion Music - Sniper Black Scorpion Music - Diamond Black Scorpion Music - Highway Black Scorpion Music - Password Black Scorpion Music - Night Storm Black Scorpion Music - Shadow Black Scorpion Music - Hypnosis Black Scorpion Music - Savage Black Scorpion Music - Countdown Black Scorpion Music - Kingslayer Black Scorpion Music - Penthouse Black Scorpion Music - High Heeled Black Scorpion Music - Quantum Black Scorpion Music - Fingerprint Black Scorpion Music - Matrix Black Scorpion Music - Morphine
Rapper "Kodak Black" was recently granted an early prison release thanks to Ex-President, Donald J. Trump. Donald Trump, recently decided to pardon rappers Lil Wayne & Kodak Black after receiving a request from rapper/songwriter Lil Yatchy. After Kodak's release, fans noticed he had took on a great weight lost & had also received new face tattoo's. The new appearance now have fans calling the rapper a clone, and has even lead some to try & assassinate the rapper at the 2021' "Tampa Bay" Superbowl party.
The weight of the world sat squarely on his back, pushing life free from his lungs with every passing second. Yet, even as he felt death's embrace, he showed them respect and kindness. He thanked them for their service and they squeezed the life out of him. That boy's name was Elijah McClain, and the Aurora Police Department murdered him. I learned about his death last year, but he had already been dead a year by then. As I stared at his face on my screen, all I could think was what if that were my son? When my son was born we planned on moving to Colorado, but the plan always got sidetracked. One minute we don't have enough money, the next the military called and then doctors diagnosed my son with Autism and we decided Colorado, the haven we dreamed about, was going to have to wait. What if it didn't? What if we moved when my son was born? We got a delightful house with a backyard where he and I would build a treehouse. I could watch him play and laugh from the window. Listen to him live his life to the fullest. Let's say we took the leap and ran from the racism that is the south for the beauty of the mountains. He would feel safe and we would feel safe. Then one night he'll walk to the store to get something to drink. A neighbor will call the cops because he's a young Black man at night. What if we went, and he lived his life to the fullest only for me to bury him? My son can't speak, he wouldn't be able to calm the police like Elijah. My son panics easily. He wouldn't have been able to understand the events like Elijah. It would terrify my son, like it did Elijah. He wouldn't have made it home like Elijah. What if I moved to feel safe? Only to find out there is no safety for people of my skin tone, wouldn't that be a terrible thing? So, I sit in the racist south. I hold my family close and I wonder what if that were my son?
“Chapel of Glass: Lace and Architecture Anthony Chapel 1 of 4”Garvan Gardens, Hot Springs, AR This was from two years ago when I was at Garvan Gardens in the spring. It is hard to believe that was two years ago and a lifetime away from Covid. The black and white on this is really tricky on these with 1) so much light, 2) so much wood that without a lot of fiddling around on Lightroom it would look to bleached to be interesting, and 3) so much hidden depth in the wood to try to capture.
ESSAY FOR THE BIOPAGE COMPETITION I am delighted to participate in this contest that Biopage is organizing to encourage aspiring writers and writing enthusiasts in general, and particularly in this time of the pandemic. I would like to share my writing experience as a new writer, author, bakery/pastry student, and full-time mom who finds voice, joy, fun, and comfort in writing. This is the opportunity for me to showcase my abilities through literature. In high school, I liked Haitian and French literature, sociology, the Bible and I had very good results in these subjects. In other words, I love everything about literature, but I never knew I was passionate about writing until I immigrated to the United States over ten years ago. years old and passed a Harvard Extension Intermediate English Level essay competition in the spring and summer of 2008. When I write in my journal, I often express my ideas, inspirations, and frustrations, but this year my writing skills and abilities have taken a new step. They have reached a deeper level that allows me to write cultural and fictional books for adults and especially for children of which my daughter is the main source of inspiration. During the pandemic, like everyone is aware of the current situation which is a global health crisis in the history of the world, but it also came with positive results of which I am among them. It allows me to have more time at home to write. Even though this pandemic has turned the world upside down, so many lives have been lost and their souls rest in peace, but it also brings joy and laughter for some. This is the reality we live in. You can regain your voice, well under bad circumstances even if he/she is not the cause. This means that I really take the opportunity not to get tired of this virus, to write my ideas, inspirations that I have transformed into little books. I am also grateful and very fortunate for the health of my family and me during this time of the pandemic. If either of us were diagnosed with Covid 19, I couldn't think clearly and positively. I wouldn't find the strength to write so many little books in such a short time when I was in school full time and taking care of my daughter either. So far, I can say that everything is happening for a reason. This pandemic period also helps me realize that life is so short and so precious at the same time. I felt like I was managing my time really well because tomorrow is not guaranteed and not mine either, so I should make good use of my time not to hand it over which I don't do by chance, but every second count. This is the reason why I was able to write so many short stories in a short time. I kept getting inspirations, ideas from my daughter and myself, so I put them in writing so that I could put them to good use later. Even though I couldn't find a job due to my daughter's schedule and mine, but I didn't let it affect my mental state. On the contrary, I changed it into positivity, into writing, by creating new things. So, I had to stay home with her most of the time because the schools and daycare were physically closed and practically open. As a stay-at-home mom writing was my first option to kill free time even though I barely had it. In other words, the writing was the best option for reducing academic and parenting stress for me. So, I thought to myself that I had to find something very interesting to kill the free time that I will be spending at home with my daughter. Therefore, I stayed home with her the entire time that I finally realized with Covid that this was something I was supposed to do, especially with my sheet music and my interests in writing and literature. during my high school years in Haiti. Here I just have something to talk about a little bit about my first project which is a songbook I created for my community churches, parents so they can teach their children good manners through songs religious. Bible verses, a story, and prayers that I wrote. My biggest inspiration has been the community church I attend. It's a small church, but full of interesting and intelligent children. They are eager to learn the song in languages other than English, for example, Haitian Creole, my mother tongue, French and Spanish learned in school. Whenever I had the chance to work with them in the children's class, I would do my best to teach them at least one song. One Sabbath, I even typed three songs to teach them in class. From there, the idea of writing a songbook reappeared and I decided to do something more professional. Fortunately, with hard work and dedication, I have created a devotional book that contains more than ten songs with prayers, bible verses, story, a puzzle with words related to the songs. It took me at least a year to write this book with the writing, design, and everything about books, but it's worth it.
Call me stupid. Call me childish and over dramatic. I don't care anymore. I'm tired of this. I really am. I'm tired of the looks. I'm tired of being looked down on. I'm tired of never having the freedom to roam the world freely because I'm scared I'll be killed. Why us? For so long, I lived in a world where I was free to do whatsoever I pleased. I was happy. I was free to do what I wanted to. Then I saw the news. I saw people like myself being mistreated and killed. They didn't do anything wrong. Why are they killing them? Why won't they stop? I can see the blood, I can hear their cries, I can feel their agony, but why is this happening? I moved to America for a better life. They told me this was the place where dreams come true. I wanted to widen my horizon. I wanted to see for myself the things I saw on the news. I never knew I was going to experience this for myself. There's so much crying and pain here. I can here them screaming for help. I want to help them but I'm scared. I want to run away but my legs are frozen. I can't move. I can taste the metallic liquid running down my face. It hurts so badly. The pain is unbearable but I can't feel it. All I feel is fear. I'm scared. I'm scared of who I am. I'm scared of what they'll do to me if they find me. Why can't I move? Please...help me... I can hear the sirens in the distance and I feel relieved. We're safe. We'll be okay. I was stupid to think that. We would never be safe. The gunshots rang in the air again. I could hear people running and screaming in fear. I wanted to run with them but my legs...what's happening to me? I hear an explosion behind me and I'm knocked further down the street. I open my mouth to scream in pain but noting leaves my mouth. It's like I've gone mute. What's happening to me? How did I get here? Help me! I can hear the voices from afar. I hear them calling us freaks, monkeys, monsters...but I don't understand it. What have we done wrong? Was our existence so much of a burden to them? Why won't they leave us alone? Why won't they let me go? Why? I look to my side and see a little girl crying. She's covered in so much blood and I'm shocked she's still alive. I want to comfort her. I want to hold her but my body won't move. She turns her head to look at me and I grimace at the open wounds on her face. She coughs up blood and I feel like crying. ''Why did they do this to us?'' Her voice is so melodic and calming even as her body shuts down slowly. She doesn't sound like she's dying and I wish it was like that. ''I was going to get some ice-cream for Bessy and they shot me. I didn't do anything wrong. Why did they shoot me?'' I want to tell her she'll be okay but I knew it would be a lie. She didn't deserve this. No one did. ''I was going to sail the world with Bessy. We were going to rescue all the black people and start our country for them.'' She winced in pain when she tried to laugh. ''I guess I'll be leaving all that to Bessy now.'' She searched my eyes before forcing a smile. ''You don't look so bad. You'll be fine. As for me, I don't think I can hold on any longer.'' ''No...'' It came out as a hoarse whisper burning my throat like I had just swallowed acid. I coughed out blood and saw her grimace as she watched me with pity. ''Don't force yourself to talk. It'll hurt you.'' She diverted her eyes from me to the sky. ?old with my husband and five children and three dogs. We'd all live in a huge house by the beach.'' I could see the salty tears running down her face and mixing with her blood. ''I shouldn't have had such high hopes for a better future. It was stupid of me. I should've known. It's simply not possible for someone like me. As long as I'm black, my future will never be happy.'' I wanted to beg her to hold on. I couldn't just let her die but I was too weak to do anything. I think I might be paralyzed. Oh God no. ''Thank you for listening to me. I should go now. Tell Bessy I love her and that she should carry on without me. I'll be watching her now. I'm so...tired...'' Her body went completely still beside me. Her eyes were still open staring up at the sky. She was gone now and even though I hardly knew her, I cried. I cried because I was sick of life. I cried because I hated being who I was. I cried because I hadn't been the one to die. I hate being black. I don't want to be like this anymore. I woke up with a start panting heavily with sweat running down my face. I looked at my brown hands which had been clutching the sheets tightly. I used them to touch my face and felt the tears. Even though it was all a dream, it still didn't change my perception of who I was and the ill fate my kind had been stricken with. I really do hate being black.
We were in a barren city. The storms kept hitting. Nobody knew when they were coming next. Blackened sky. Disastrous rain. Wailing sirens. Police officers, yelling orders into their PA systems - their voices blaring through the speakers. Debris flying. Them: “Hands up!” Us: “Don't shoot!” Them: “Hands up!” Us: “Don't shoot!” Them: “Hands up!” Us: “Don't shoot!” Over and over and over again. We ran into the stores and warehouses, hiding under retail carts and equipment made of iron that might keep us safe but not for certain. We maneuvered the industrial carts from one side of the space to the other to escape the bullets....but they wouldn't stop. They came for us. They came for our skin. The bullets sinking into our yellow and tearing holes through our black. We were hurting; broken on the inside, but brave on the outside. We were angry but we were together. The flag waved tattered and tired in the background, grayed by the smog. When the war on the foreground was over we would walk, looking for younger children that didn't belong to us - not because we were covetous but because they were our allies. They looked ivory as bone, helplessly washed in glistening shades of white by the hands of God our maker. Some were painted a dark red. Others were dipped in bright yellows and fine golds. Most of the children were polished in the prettiest brown and black tones; a stony trail of ebony by the wayside. We walked. Then we sped. Then we ran. Them: “Hands up!” Us: “Don't shoot!” Them: “Hands up!” Us: “Don't shoot!” Them: “Hands up!” Us: “Don't shoot!” Again, we sought for cover, trying our best to remember the “duck-and-cover” protocol from our lock-down drill days in grade school. We were adults on the inside who knew righteousness apart from injustice but we wore the bodies of fifth graders, and seventh graders, and eighth graders. We were us, but the us from our youths, staring each other in the eyes as if to scream, “fight for your life! It is our God given right to live!” Imagine that? A God given right. The upmost right that not a single white man had the right to strip away, but he did so in plain sight because he could. Their stark hands collected the muscle memory of the last lynchings; their craving for the next victim....insatiable. We fought for the right to breathe the same air as these white law enforcement officers. We were not privileged enough. To them, black or yellow meant filthy and unpardonable. They counted us as unworthy. We hid for the sake of preserving our right to bleed red. They saw us. We owned our anger. They opened fire. The color of our skin didn't inspire the crime; it was the crime. They raged, offended that we were still awake. They seethed for fear that we were not yet left for dead in pools of our own blood. They wanted us asleep forever. They were scared of us, threatened by a beauty that challenged their white privilege. They called our skin dominant so their society made us inferior. We became a part of it, having no choice but to play the role of the weaker vessel. How did I not know that this series was on repeat for over 400 years? Yet, the world remained quiet about our dread. Instead of defending us, they eyeballed our ascent into a Heaven that called us home too soon. Glory demanded us. We carry on, filling up the streets as if nothing ever happened; traveling on threadbare feet that were tired of amounting to the stereotype that “all minorities do is run.” They blame us for running but it's the only option they offer us. We run until we see Heavens gates swing wide, shadow-less and full of acceptance that our prior world ruled we didn't deserve. God waits on the other side to meet us and we grow nervous, buckling before His bigness. Were we ready all along? Did He count us as so from birth? Either way, He doesn't shun us. He doesn't know how to, so instead He bear hugs us. Deep in my soul, I can feel hundreds of thousands of God's children fling their eyes open from the same nightmare, all at once and in different time zones. They feel like my friends. One, by one, by one, we wake up with a disturbed kind of energy that sends elastic waves from the Earth's epicenter to its opposite poles. We sense that the racists could feel the aftermath of our torment. “Why can't the nightmares remain nightmares?” we ask rhetorically. Our voices echo from different bedrooms. We ache for dreams only to wonder if they are worth writing down or fighting for. The media tells us, that we might not ever survive to see our dreams. They don't tell us verbatim of course, but the reports all end on notes that shrill with dissonance and screech with injustice. For the first time at age 26, I am unsettled by my indigenous features, alarmed that I am a double minority, who can't scrub the color off of my skin. I am Latina. I am a yellow woman.
Dear Mr. Policeman You made my mom cry. She didn't know I was standing behind her. She was sitting on the couch watching the t.v. I was in my room and heard her saying no no no. So I went to see if she was ok. She was hugging the couch pillow and crying. She was crying really really hard. It scared me. I saw you on the t.v. Mr. Policeman. You had your knee on that mans neck. He kept saying that he could not breathe. Didn't you hear him? And how come you stayed on him for so long? Why didn't you listen? My mom was so so sad. It made me cry to see my mom like that. But I have seen her like that before. Like the day my dad went to prison and when my uncle was killed in that drive by on Crenshaw and when my granny died from cancer. My mom has cried a lot. I went to my mom and gave her a hug. She hugged me really, really tight. It hurt a little bit but it was ok because I'm strong. My granny use to always tell me that. I told my mom that it was going to be ok because God is watching over us. I asked her if she wanted me to pray. She said yes and hugged me harder. So I prayed. I prayed for my mom first. I asked God to stop the tears from coming and to help her to be happy again. Like she was before we lost our family. Then I prayed for all of the people who are crying because of what you did. And then I prayed for you Mr. Policeman. I asked God to help you. I asked him to help you to know that it is not right to hurt other people. I asked him to help you to know that we are suppose to love each other and to be helpful and kind. Then I asked him to help you listen. Mr. Policeman can you please listen next time? And can you please tell your policeman friends to listen too? Thank you photo- Santi Vedri on Unsplash
Ignorance. Privilege. The cost of a life. These are the topics I considered as I sat down to write. It's hard to know where to start right now. Ignoring that we are still in the throes of a pandemic minimizes that reality and all who have and continue to suffer. And yet, the pressing issue of racism and the related unrest in the country seems to require immediate attention. There is no question that we are in turbulent waters and sadly, there seems to be no calming in sight. People are angry. People are divided. People are hurt. People are dying. Through it all, our leadership is fanning the flames of divisiveness rather than encouraging unification. A friend has said to me on more than one occasion that ‘an optimist is merely a pessimist who has had his heart broken too many times.' This sentiment might be attributable to someone else, but its meaning is most important. Beyond the obvious implications, this thought conveys the notion that what occurs around us has a profound and lasting affect that can be far greater and longer-lasting than what is surface level. I feel sad about what is occurring in this country. I feel forlorn contemplating systemic and pervasive racism. I feel horrified witnessing some of the current response. I am not caveating or disclaiming when I explain that I am not judging, nor am I condoning. I know that I do not believe violence is the answer. I also know for certain that I have no idea what it is like to be a person of color in a country that is plagued by racism and discrimination. This is simple. The murder, degradation, and injury perpetuated on and against people of color in this country is heart-wrenching and sickening. It's time for it to stop. The destruction and harm caused to property, businesses, and people, is tragic, devastating, and unnecessary. 100,000 lives lost is a staggering figure. The media's desire to mostly publicize the negative to support an agenda is disappointing. The inability of many representatives to put country before party and people before schemes is mind-boggling. The lack of accountability that has infected our society for decades and our inability to break free of certain paradigms, no matter how little they continue to serve us, is confusing. So, what now? What do we do in the middle of a pandemic as we watch our country burn around us? Well, now we start to do the work. This work is challenging because it is fairly intangible. It's difficult because it is different for everyone, so no universal standard exists. It can seem impossible because it requires patience, courage, and determination. The work means being uncomfortable. It means taking responsibility. It means holding each other accountable. It means asking tough questions. It means acknowledging and putting a spotlight on the broken parts but also making room for the goodness. It means standing up for what's right. Every single time. No matter what. The work is not a hashtag. It's not posting on social media. It's not trendy. It doesn't take one day or even one month. The work is a lifelong commitment. The work will connect you to folks you may never have known, but it will also probably lose you some friends. The work is not clean, it's messy. It's emotional. It will break your heart, knock you down, and then help you get up again. Here's the thing. Without some of us doing the work, we are totally lost. If some of us roll up our sleeves, take a deep breath, and dive in, we can find our way to a much brighter future. My father told me this morning that he sees my despair and he knows it well, but wanted to offer the following wisdom: “We've been here before. Our country has been in a place of chaos and pain and darkness. I have witnessed what is seemingly this country being burnt to the ground in the most literal and metaphorical ways. What I have learned is that what has seemed like the end, is never the end. What has seemed like the worst, is never the bottom. What comes from this pain is hope and love. We are in a bad place, but we are also in a unique position to turn it around. But we can't do that without deciding first that all hope is not lost. We must first acknowledge that there is room to grow. So much room. Have faith in the goodness of people. Sometimes it seems like there is more bad than good, but I've lived on this earth for nearly 67 years and I can tell you that just is not the truth.” I can't think of a better message. There's no easy way out of all of this. That's the reality. We each have a responsibility here if we want more. We have to do our part. Buildings will be rebuilt, bodies will heal, hospitals will be reconverted, and graffiti will be washed away. However, we can only truly heal as a country, a society, and as humans, if we decide that that the value of a singular life cannot be assigned a dollar amount, that we are all truly equal under the law and in each other's eyes, and that the work is always worth it. Always.
Color: The Visual Spectrum by Black Box Gallery is a visual prism of color. Check out Portland, Oregon's Black Box Gallery and my piece featured in their on site gallery, "By Gones Here By" in which the perfect moment for the perfect picture came along ringing its bell. Pulaski County Courthouse in Little Rock, AR and the city's trolley meet in a riot of color as you are taken back in time to an artistic era of architecture. This courthouse was built in the 1880s in Romanesque Revival where clock tower and turrets stretch toward the sky. This clock tower is a taste of her now ...
“Autumn at Dardanelle 2” by Y. Hope Osborn featured in the gallery Black Box Gallery of Portland, OR for exhibit Black and White: 2020 during February. http://blackboxgallery.com/Black%20and%20White-2020-EP.html
“Cloud Complexity” awarded Contemporary Art Gallery Online's Gallery Choice in Photography & Digital Open/No Theme internstional exhibit. https://www.contemporaryartgalleryonline.gallery/2019-openno-theme-winners I have found that public opinion gives it a really dislike to really like rating. To purchase you may go to https://www.artmajeur.com/yhosborn or contact me through artworkarchive.com/YHopeOsborn Thanks!
Black Box Gallery's Viewpoint: Landscape and Architecture features my architectural perspectivism art “Crossways.” It is obe of 54 curated into the exhibit to be followed by its inclusion in the gallery book. http://blackboxgallery.com/Viewpoint-Land%20and%20Arch%20Annex%20Web/index.html
They got us black folks dying When us black folks trying Cop put a gun up to his head Now us black folks crying Then they sitting around wonder Why us black folks riot Saying a nigga had a gun You know us niggas ain't buy it I ain't lying This stressing on my chest made me defiant Now they want me to believe all lives matter But the black man tried to climb the ladder Then they shot him down on a silver platter All it do is make us madder Make them mothers even sadder And the worst part we got our hands up Screaming please don't shoot And they mad cause the black man don't wanna stand and salute Salute to what? A country that never gave a fuck Now we got a president that rather see more niggas in the morgue Man never mind, If you don't see the racism you color blind Stevie Wonder can see through this shit it's televised They tellin lies I seen this before with Rosa Parks in 55 Only difference is nah there's no difference we still dying But none the less I'm still out there with picket signs and I protest Meanwhile hate running through my chest And these white folks still want to put my patience to the test And all I wanna do is take a gun and rip bullets in they chest But I can't because God told me keep my head up and stay blessed Now another brother dies and the son that a mother has to lay to rest And the media tells me black people need to just hope for the best And something I forgot to mention 3 years ago the media said only uneducated women voted for Mrs. Clinton So what you tryna say I'm a black woman with no intentions A black woman with no intuitions A black woman that's too indifferent But if I say something to ignorant You might think it's to belligerent But really you wouldn't comprehend it Cause America to rich to wanna listen And I get it If I was white and rich I wouldn't give a damn about no black folks business But I'm Black and this my business To go out and make a difference I'm young black and educated 28 and got a business But for you that ain't okay So is it to ignorant for me to say the only people that voted for Donald J is Mrs. K Mr. K and little K that's a whole family of KKK all they do is want to slay another black man into his grave So we have to stay awake and just pray for a better day I mean we tried to change the world Maybe we should just try and save our state I mean vote for a better chief that would put police into they place I'm just waiting for that day I'm in front of Heavens gate And I get to ask God What happened back on November 8th? And he get to tell me America to scared to wanna grow We put money over respect And we forgot about our goals We forgot black people and white people we fighting as a whole Our skin may be different but what's same is our soul The blood running through our veins is the same as the rose And where we go after death good god heaven knows So we better make friends cause he ain't gone open up his door to that white power bull and no racist ass foes In my eyes we all the same But to you we at the bottom of the chain You rather call us out our name then to look at us the same You wanna take away our rights, and see our ankles wrapped in chains Even though I'm fighting for equality if you call me a nigger I swear that would be the day I'm starting to see change, or all this racism got me going insane because H&M went and thought blacks and monkeys were the same Now Gucci and Prada got a black face with a nigga name And Joy Villa thinks wearing a build a wall dress will make America great again The only great that I see is SEGREGATED Because you have whites on one side and a wall stopping the Mexicans So how can we open up our hearts when American doesn't want to let us in The way I see it, we need to learn how to love before America is great again!