I’m sick of writing this poem
I can’t talk loudly
But I’m going to bring you the girl.
Her same dead body. Ordinary and black
That is what being black is about.
Not the joy of it, but the feeling.
Why don't I get the same rights
As the Whites does?
The feeling of being blocked off
simply because I am black.
Not even at the same table
Or brush my teeth in the same room
Always separated
only because of my skin tone
The feeling of anger bubbling inside me
But still in fear of being shot
If I´m speaking
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