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Graceopher Mills Jan 2017
All the white men
Running at me
With their pale capes
And their steel gloves
I'm trapped in a
Colored one yet
Not so vivid
They don't even
Scare me at this
Point, I've become
Accustomed to
The dull scissors
That remove my
Scalp once in the
Day and then twice
During the night
Will I ever
Escape? Do I
Even want to?
Because if the
White men stop their
Daily visits,
Then my life will
Lose the only
Color it had
And my clear room
Will never be
The same again
Graceopher Mills Jan 2017
The angry words
Rain down on me
A violent
Downpour on a
Kid who's afraid
Of getting wet

— The End —