Lyrics

They always said I was tired,you see,Like it was my bones that gave out on me.As if it weren’t rage in my soul that day,But weariness that made me stay.child,they said I was tired,They mistook my stillness for fading breath,I sat down, teasing death. Let them believe that lie,It helps them sleep,keeps them dry.To say my stand was chance,not will,An accident not iron will.I didn’t slip through history’s gate,I walked in bold, I chose my fate.I drove the blade with silent thrill,And carved my name in oppression’s throat,by sitting still.no I wasn’t weary from the day,from Centuries tucked in a polished claw,Slipped into pockets,then called it law.White comfort stitched in legal thread,justice bled and we played dead.done being told where I belong,By men who thought control meant strong.done watching Black skin lend, Pushed through shadows with no end. Pressed to the back,like we’re some sin, Told to smile while they shove us in.told me to move,as if my seat Was some stolen crown.But I did not rise I held my ground,I had stood,no praise found.In fields,in kitchens,cloaked in shade, Where worth was weighed by how we obeyed.Where every word was a measuring girth,Of how faint my footprint marked the earth.They called it law,but I’ve seen them shift,Like masks they wear, each darker gift.Each one uglier than the last, Built to bind us to the past.I sat like my grandma’s prayers below, Rooted deep where pain won’t show.With Harriet’s hands upon my spine,And Sojourner’s fire crossing mine.”Ain’t I a woman?”,her words still rang,And history will shake when they say my name.Ain’t I allowed to still this frame, While the world keeps stealing just the same? I did not rise on cue or show. For every time we mend or yield,They write our silence as a shield. They call our patience grace,not pain,As if our stillness brings them gain.I did not spark with grand parade,I was the match their comfort made.I struck against their padded pride, Lit truth where their illusions died.I sat not lone, not meek, not small,But with the weight of one and all.With screams that history never kept,With spit where masters once had stepped.I sat for those who had to stand, While ropes swung low by bloodied hands.I was not tired,don’t twist the tale.I was a woman built to prevail. A force, a fact, a storm made still,A mountain moved by iron will.That bus didn’t slow for my sweet tone,It stopped because I turned to stone.Because I mirrored all they dread,And showed them what they’d left for dead.They jailed me fast,to keep me tame,As if bars could blur my name.But chains mean little to a soul,That’s served four centuries on parole.I was not tired,I was awake.And ready for the ground to shake.To burn the myth that peace is quiet, And holy women must not riot.And when they write my tale in ink,They often soften what I think.But I did not sit on that seat alone,Each breath I drew, a battle cry,Each stare, a soul they can’t deny.And every footstep in my track was justice rising, taking back