Wesley Keys Wants Our Women To Dream

Dear Ms. Hip Hop by Wesley Keys

I was left breathless. Because before I was born came bridges that connected beats that make my feet dance desperately to separate souls from puppeteer strings. Stringed instruments put stress on simple souls. Bob their heads to drum machine patterns, drumming up patterns of distress and unrest. Unwilling to open the eyes of those 4, 5 and 6 year old girls who only see through night vision goggles of video vixens. Intoxicating their minds to move their hips and in turn they move their behind. They are behind. Behind rappers who lynch themselves with chains. Behind rappers who decorate themselves with the reddest and bloodiest diamonds turned transparent, I see right through you. They are still slaves. Slaves to the land of mediocrity. multiplying and dividing this empty wealth among themselves. She is the ornament that dangles from his arm.She is his eye candy. She is the chain that hangs on his lynched neck. She is the gold digger. But how can you dig gold out of copper mines. Empty minds is what I see. I wish to write a letter

Dear yellow diamond spoiler chick. Dear miss how easily do I forget that Angela Davis did not wear natural hair with a balled fist raised high in the air so I could be his bust it baby. Dear miss I forget that I am the only image that these girls see. I wish you could dream. Because that all these girls are doing is dreaming your reality. Let the heartbeats lead your movements again. Forget the drum machine. Forget snare and the bass. Remember that there was a time that the beat machine was our bodies. Begin to dance again. Begin to dream again. Begin to live again. Begin to know that your hip movements exsistince did not start with a tip drill video. Your movements were forged in the fire of the dance on African coast lines. Not even chains. Chains could not curb your boogie. You tapped, bopped, swung your way across the Atlantic. Up from southern bondage that you danced around to the dance halls of New York, to the basement parties in Detroit, to the Mayfair dance academy in Chicago. My sisters, I love you. Go back that natural state and begin to dances to those rhythms that you hear when you sleep. Begin to dream.