This Country Has Strange Rugs

This country has strange rugs.

The streets are lined with their red paint,

courtesy of blue bloods.


No matter. Apparently, blacks make up the struggle.

Make it up like trash TV.


Do you only need to kill a black man 

to have a movement move at breakneck speed?


I say he's a man, yet he was someone's baby. 

He might have been 30, but he cried out momma til his 

rugged eight minutes and forty six seconds were up.


He was probably remembering "the talks"

his momma teachered him about.


Whatever helps you sleep fine.

I know I can't get any of mine.


It's funny how our parents' people complained that 

racist police weren't policing brown neighborhoods. 


It's funny how our people complain that

racist police won't stop policing brown neighborhoods.



It's funny how our parents' people preached at us

to be color blind, see color of character only.



It's funny how our people preached at us

that to be color blind is to be just that: blind.



So my black friends tell me to talk to my people,

but they don't get it.



If all the colored people died, or if all the white people died,

it would bother me the same; no more, no less.



They don't understand that if I woke up a different color,

a part of me wouldn't die inside.



If I gave you a seat at the table, and gave up my seat,

it wouldn't be that big a deal.



When I walk into a room brimming with black people,

I don't count the number of white people in the room.



It's funny how even if I pay blacks' due reparations,

you still wouldn't forgive me for being white.



Be honest with yourself.



This poem is about: 
My country
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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