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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
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