Travelers

Alright, these boxes ain't gonna move themselves

I come from a lineage of travelers

Men who carried pain in silence

And their dreams in duffel bags

Each mile, a prayer they forgot to say out loud

Men who have mastered packing U-Hauls full of secrets

But never how to unpack a single one

These men, they wear their burdens like boxers

Dressing themselves every morning in false self confidence

Convinced that their act of

Successfully carrying the weight of the world on their back

Is some type of an accomplishment

Men who have confused staying still with staying stagnant

Creating fragments of themselves in the form of babies

Leaving them to be raised alone

By ladies in cities they were too afraid to call home

Because they know the road doesn't come with expectations

Doesn't ask them to be perfect or present

Doesn't require them to pick the phone

I come from a lineage of the Improper Papas

Rolling Stones

In love with fresh air

While their soul travels on four flats

Because they have no love to spare

Men who only feel like a man when in motion

So every apology given is whispered through rear view mirrors

These men, they find fun in the sun

While their illiteracy lies in the stop light

Green means run

Red means go

And yellow, it just doesn't exist

All they know is to treat women like pitstops

Staying long enough to sit

Lay down, take a piss

And split

But not before they get a bite to eat

Black men programmed to stay on code

With so much of their DNA embedded in the pavement and spread along the way

How could they not feel at home in the streets

I come from a lineage of travelers

Men who've collected their father's recycled behavior

Leaving them to literally treat their litter like

Litter

And we, their offspring

Already in pieces