Crayon Box

We were born as numbers, and disguised with names. Statistics to the system, is God the one to blame. Born where freedoms are equal, and where equals aren't the same.

Hear me out.
It's time to forget the reparations, and understand they can't fix the rounds they've taken.
Bodies drop and a 10 second count isn't enough for the people to make it back to their feet.
Or should I say their knees,
suppression holding them down while
shackled by the colors of protection.

Red white and blue.
Their color flies not on the flag,
Though 14–1 states all persons born to this motherland are accepted.
Yet they can't cross crosses without a prayer that the ops aren't watching.

Those tops clock into an exploration with antagonistic disposition.
And 8-1 states nor cruel and unusual punishments be inflicted.
Yet the right man is in a state of incredulity because they are vindictive.

It's hard for me to understand,
That they don't understand,
What it's like to understand..
They don't know what it's like to always have to look all ways and cut corners to walk straight.
Silent talking because the words fade, like the skin of lady liberty it's symbolic for wordplay
Where words play on this picture that's been photoshopped.

Look closely, without a societal lens.
See that the clearest picture of that life is not beautiful at all.
Without filtering these problems and cropping out those who caused them to fall.

Their picture is framed, title it a blank man's life because they've stolen the colors that make life, life.


This poem is about: 
My country


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