The Cost of Born Owing

Life got a price tag…

And I been paying it

Before I ever had a name.

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Life got a price tag stitched in my skin

Pay with my silence just to fit in

Born owing something I never stole

Blame in the cracks of my bones

They say “be patient,” say “stay in your lane”

But the road stay crooked, soaked in our pain

Every smile feel like borrowed air

Every step say prove you belong here

Cameras watch me like I’m behind bars

Not guilty of crime, just tone and scars

Of color, of culture, of not being cloned

Watched like I’m human—but owned

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They don’t see people, they see supply

Fear does the work, so they don’t need ties

They take what they want, then ask why we cry

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Life is overpriced—not gold or cash

But blood and breath and futures snatched

They weigh my life like it’s disposable

Call it “the system,” call it “normal”

I’m tired of shrinking just to survive

Tired of asking to stay alive

If freedom’s real, tell me the price—

’Cause I been paying it my whole life

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History written with a boot on our neck

They call it “the past,” but it ain’t left yet

Hands in our pockets, eyes on our backs

Hunted at night, blamed for the tracks

They love our rhythm, slang, and soul

But hate when we say something’s wrong

Build their towers on our chains

Then act surprised when we scream their names

Justice ain’t blind, it just looks away

Law and order—selective that way

Taken, reshaped, told who to be

Punished for wanting the right to be free

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Tell me why breathing feel like a crime

Why freedom gotta wait in line

Why the loudest truth still ignored

While the system eats us to stay bored

I don’t want revenge

I want my breath back

I want my name back

I want my future off layaway

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Life is overpriced, and the bill’s unpaid

By the hands that took, by the laws they made

You can’t tax a soul, can’t mute our cries

We’re not your property—pick a side

I was born owing—but I don’t comply

Won’t apologize just to survive

You can’t keep charging us for existence

And call resistance a crime

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This ain’t a plea.

It’s a receipt.

And we remember every charge.