It Is What It Is… Until It’s You
by BlakkMomba | Momba Raw and Unfiltered Podcast
The Introduction...
On my morning scroll, I came across two press conferences.
One from William McNeil Jr., the young brother dragged from his car like he was a rag doll, speaking through the trauma with Attorney Ben Crump by his side. And the other? From the Black police chief in Jacksonville, Florida standing in front of cameras and lying —blatantly — about a video we all saw. A video that showed brutality, clear as day.
I watched it thinking: That could be one of my daughter's one day. That could have been me.
Rest in peace, Sandra Bland.
Rest in peace, Breonna Taylor.
And where was the outrage when the Trump administration tried to give the cop who shot all them bullets — not one that actually killed her — just one damn day in jail?
One day.
We accept this shit like it’s normal.
We swallow it.
We let it sit in our gut and rot us from the inside.
Then we go to work.
Post a meme. A comment.
Scroll again.
Like this is just how life goes.
No.
This is how we allow life to go.
And I ain’t built for acceptance.
I’m built for disruption.
— BlakkMomba
Wake Up: A Dream Deferred, Downloaded, and Deleted
“It is what it is.”
That’s what he said.
With the most nonchalant shoulder shrug.
Like Black death don’t hit different.
Like generational trauma ain’t coded into the system.
Like we ain’t been screaming for centuries and still…
falling on deaf algorithms.
“It is what it is.”
And that’s exactly what IT is.
A shoulder shrug.
Like that ain’t code for
“don’t fight it”
“don’t name it”
“just die with it.”
Shrug.
Swipe.
Next headline.
This is the design.
The blueprint.
The trap.
The fold.
This is the remix of slavery,
now wrapped in 4K gold.
Shifted.
Remixed itself to match the current trends.
Modernized its chains.
Upgraded its violence.
Now it’s blue check verified.
That’s the system, y’all.
Not broken. Not flawed.
Functioning exactly as it should.
The only system built for Black people—
the criminal justice system.
Crafted specifically with our essence in mind.
And like any virus, it evolved —
adapting to every revolution,
every resistance,
every shift in “our kind.”
They Cloned Tyrone and we laughed
while they wrote our extinction in Dolby Digital surround sound.
Said it was fiction.
The message was riddled,
thriller-level subliminal.
You ain’t catch the signal?
The writing been
Off. The. Wall.
Michael Jackson.
They stream our trauma.
Monetize our pain.
Put our fear on shelves
like crack cocaine.
We are the experiment and the result.
But I digress.
Because soon?
It’ll be someone else’s story.
Another viral name.
Another TikTok timeline obituary.
And the comments will come in waves…
fake-deep, AI-regurgitated grief.
Then?
Silence.
Then?
Nothing.
Then?
Another shrug.
That's just the way life goes.
We grow further divided.
Paranoid.
Apathy our new drug.
We were never free.
Don’t let the illusion fool you.
This new plantation got no cotton.
Just content.
And we still slaves to it.
Mental chains — the new drip.
No WHIPS.
Just whips.
No CHAINS.
Just ice.
Got you out here thinking
you really living nice.
We watch history repeat and stay on repeat
as we compete with each other for crumbs.
For clout. For virality.
The Matrix on repeat.
Our government — the real thugs.
Are you not entertained?
Oh, I forgot.
Trauma porn is your king.
World Star. First 48. REAL-ity TV.
We meme it.
We share it.
We quote it with Ric Flair.
We watch them break another Black man
and call it awareness when we share.
Nah.
It’s numbness.
It’s performance.
It’s trauma dressed in reformist.
Fake woke.
Meanwhile, at band camp…
we still ain’t shapeshifted.
Still ain’t glitched the game.
Still stuck debating skinfolk
while they copyright our pain.
While we choke on the smoke.
Go ahead, beloved...
Take another toke.
You shocked?
What you mean, what you can’t believe?
Nah. That’s wild.
What I can’t believe
is how we can’t do the same.
Mutate.
Transform.
Shape-shift to survive these modern times.
After all these years,
boots still on our necks.
Still.
Still.
And we still begging for breath.
Like we don’t own the sky.
Like our souls ain’t the real flex.
Like our DNA ain’t divine. Ain’t royal.
Like we weren’t built Ford tough for this struggle.
We can cancel culture like we can create it.
But like a student loan…
a dream deferred…
there is no forbearance on our pain.
We can’t LifeLock erase it.
Once Gods and Goddesses walking the earth —
but we going out like this?
Like a joke?
Still holding a hand out for reparations
that will never be paid
when we could be repairing our souls,
reprogramming our minds...
in spades.
Instead, ignorance is bliss.
It’s Amazon Prime.
Tell me...
"What you gone do to put that ice on me?"
Is that all that be on yall mind?
What are we really doing
in this echo chamber of trauma reaffirmation?
They rebranded the whip.
Put the chain on your wrist.
Now you post it on TikTok
and call it a gift.
No reparations.
Just recommendations.
No healing.
Just hashtags.
We be competing in oppression Olympics
while they cash out on backlash and laugh.
You tired yet?
Are you asking “what the hell are we doin’,” yet?
Shit, I’m asking the same.
We in a maze of mirrors
repeating the names.
March.
Kneel.
Rage.
Sleep.
Scroll.
Forget.
Repeat.
New name.
New death.
New viral regret and grief.
It's all good.
It's all love.
Just as long as you get that performance bonus check.
Right?
Riiiight!
Is anybody even reading this?
Maybe.
They skimming this?
Likely.
They feeling this?
I doubt it.
Too wordy.
Ain’t got time for no novel.
“Individuals who don’t even read have been chosen to lead.”
— Mr. Tomonoshi, It Ain’t That Deep
That shit is diabolical.
When actuality?
If I wrote it down,
you’d only see a paragraph…
but once again…
I digress.
You want me to dress it up.
Make it real for you.
But this aint that.
And hell yeah, I'm pressed.
I ain’t here to comfort.
I ain’t here to dance.
I’m here to say what haunts me
every time I get the fucking chance.
I got three daughters,
queens in the making.
My legacy.
The ones coming after me.
And I’ll be damned if they inherit
a world this forsaken
and without the Key.
So I write.
And I pray.
And I purge.
I spit for survival.
I bleed in prose.
I dream in resistance.
I refuse to fold.
So miss me with the shrugs.
Miss me with the sighs.
Miss me with “damn, that’s deep.”
But never ask why.
Wake up.
Wake up.
WAKE UP.
You’re sleeping.
This is sedation.
This is digital damnation.
This is genocide
with a Wi-Fi connection.
I pray one day WE find the way.
Because the cheat code?
It’s buried, but it ain’t erased.
It’s an Easter egg.
Hidden in memory and plain sight.
And I’m on the hunt.
I choose this fight.
I gotta find a way
to wake y’all the fuck up.
Open your eyes.
Eyes wide shut.
WAKE UP.
WAKE UP.
WAKE UP
I AM TRYING TO REFILL YOUR CUP!
Either I’m the dreamer
or the dream dreaming a dream.
Either way,
this is no reality I want to see.
And these poetic free thoughts
are the only way I know how to purge
the digital toxicity inside me.
I love y’all.
And I’m sending warm vibes your way.
Even if you don’t read this.
Even if it don’t go viral.
Even if all I get back is a shrug.
Be good.
Stay safe.
And do something…
Find a way.
Don't let them sell you your soul.
Wake up.
Wake up.
WAKE UP.
AND STAY SUCKA FREE.
YOUR VOICE HOLDS POWER
DONT YOU SEE?
COLLECTIVELY THEY CANT HOLD US.
WE JUST GOT TO BELIEVE.
— BlakkMomba
DEDICATION
For William McNeil Jr.
For Sandra Bland
For Breonna Taylor
For the unfilmed, unseen, unheard
For every name we scroll past too fast
For the ones who didn’t survive to tell their side
And all who have suffered under a designed system of control
With solidarity for the victims of police violence — past, present, future.
This is for you.
This is for us.
This is for the ones still here
who breathe trauma daily,
yet still insist on waking up.
QUOTE & CITATION
“Individuals who don’t even read have been chosen to lead.”
— Mr. Tomonoshi, It Ain’t That Deep Website
"Tell me what you gone do to put that ice on me?"
— DREX, Ice on Me (feat. BROOKLYNLEDGE & PRESSPLAY K) Listen On Apple Music
“They Cloned Tyrone and we laughed… but the message was prophecy.”
— Referenced from the "satirical" sci-fi film, They Cloned Tyrone, Netflix, 2023.
📺 Related Press Conferences (Link & Embed):
-
Victim Press Conference w/ Ben Crump:
-
Police Chief’s Statement (media coverage):
🔗 Further Reading: Enter the Transmission
If this piece stirred something in you, don’t stop here.
My debut book, Digital Disobedience, goes even deeper.
It’s a stream of consciousness turned warning.
A collection of essays, poetry, and fire-breathed truth.
Written to wake the ones still dreaming.
👉🏾 Read Digital Disobedience on Amazon
#ItIsWhatItIs #WilliamMcNeilJr #BenCrump #SandraBland #BreonnaTaylor #DigitalDisobedience #BlackPoets #SpokenTruth #MrTomonoshi #ItAintThatDeep #PoeticProtest #WakeUpCall #SystemicInjustice #BlackVoices #DigitalDamnation
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