Black music is not just sound —
it’s ancestral thunder,
it’s lightning braided into song,
it’s the way grief blooms into gold
when the world swears you are stone.

It is Congo square feet stomping,
it is calloused palms beating a revolution into the air,
it is the holy holler from a gut too full of centuries,
too rich to be silenced.

It smells like barbecue smoke on a summer Sunday,
it moves like bodies weaving through southern heat,
it is the sweat of survival,
the tears that cook into laughter,
the bloodline that drums against a future not yet born.

It is the field holler,
the back alley jam session,
the cipher on cracked sidewalks,
the jazz riffs that crack open the sky at midnight —
Miles blowing dreams into a blue-black New York night,
Ella scatting galaxies where words don’t reach.

It is gospel that can lift a dead heart
out of winter,
it is funk that makes gravity forget its job,
it is hip-hop stitching broken cities together with rhyme.

Black music is both a weapon and a womb —
it shatters chains and sews up wounds,
it tells you you are free even before the world agrees,
it reminds you: you have always been a miracle.

It is memory, it is movement,
it is the laughter of the ancestors echoing in a beat drop,
the future dancing barefoot across a cracked record.

Black music —
is the language God spoke
when She first said let there be light.