I grew up on the sounds of scratching.

Heard the scratches of scratch-off lottery tickets;

my grandma would use her last penny 

to scratch for pennies.

Spare change ain’t never

seem to change our situation,

but she scratched,

convinced a miracle would show itself on paper.

The patience of a penny,

how Lincoln stares at those he supposedly “freed”

and maybe this ticket will free us!

Play the game and the burden 

will be lifted off your back;

the burden to make ends meet

when your pockets only know finish line,

convinced a dime duplicates in seconds.

When we gon’ realize

the lottery be silent weapons?

The projection of who you think you can be

or who Lincoln freed

You don’t get to have 

generational wealth in this country!

White people got trust funds.

We don’t go no funds to trust,

to save us

just scratch offs

so we can itch at hope

fuck being woke

if the system continues to sleep

How is there a mega millions

and 14 million starving babies?

I don’t understand.

I see my role models itching

for another chance,

as if they were ever given one.

Different races

racing to a jackpot—-

how capitalism breaks spines

turn humans into spirits.

The last time my grandma felt that itch

she stared at Lincoln in the eye 

And said “fuck you!”

and he takes,

stay turned

can’t ever seem to face the truth.

Seems like every founding father

finds an excuse to keep

the systems turning—-

keep ya hands burning.

What numbers did your grandmother 

play last night on her last dollar?

Bet it wasn’t 9-1-1

Like n*ggas ain’t lucky enough to get help

Funny how we have a synonym for poor

it’s “broke”

like we “broken”

but we break our backs 

to try

to survive

Americas maze,

but the only way is 

to make trust funds everybody’s right.

Closing the disparity gap is right.

No president has made it right,

so we have to take back our rights

and the poets will write.