Flesh and Stripes
The cold misty smell of decaying flesh fills the atmosphere of the inner city.
Flesh ripping and tearing like a hamstring that was not stretched well before a race.
The grace of Blacks fade away into the summer night with memories filled with pain.
Pain drains the soul while Blacks search for fulfillment yet, Blacks' fulfillment is unfound similar to how the U.S. could not found Bin Laden.
Hearses are filled with fictional tales of the American Dream but in the quest for that dream, Blacks are caught in the rat race and become, missing like JonBenet Ramsey.
Through fire of the barbwire cutting your throat pain is felt yet, forgotten because they achieve the American Dream yet their soul is rotten at the core like the grim reaper himself.
Underneath the ground is a crypt with a delicious pleasure, which is the black mind, so easy to corrode and mislead....
Greed and hunger wage a wedge between the conceptual idea of going against the idea of thinking freely, which forces them to sink and erode away into the graveyard...
Bodies are the soulless devices that promote the unproductive process of achieving the American Dream...
Strings and stripes equal heartache and pain with the vision of the grim reaper himself....
The grim reaper waves the American Flag as he takes the souls of Blacks one by one...
Hardship and fresh carcasses define how Blacks get lost in the wind through the handcuffs.
Bleeding, pleading, and screaming, "I am innocent" as their lives leave along with their souls.
Forcing Blacks to want and need causing them to drift aimlessly like Pat Swazi visiting Demi Moore.
Invisible like a ghost I am black in America helpless with no identity.
Their souls are gone so there is no fight or determination to be great therefore, settling for the projected American Dream which transforms into Hurricane Katrina.
Blacks want what they can't have and when they get what they want, they can't have it because they can't think clearly, hence their insides combust to failure.
Knife in my heart, blood dripping, muscle contracting, head spinning, and veins bursting my life is controlled by the outside world.
Book It! Throwback E Fitted
No comments:
Post a Comment