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May 2016
A illness flowin’ like a breeze
Slippin’ in with ease
The African-American Disease
Where the thought of a white man in a
blue uniform makes every black child
weak at the knees
I mean there ain’t no cure
Every 28 hours another black man
dropping to the floor
And I’m not sure how much more we can endure
Cause we ain’t protected
We rejected
Not accepted but expected
To sit quiet
So they seem surprised
When we violently riot
But yea it’s nothing new
400 year old news
Nothing’s changed
History’s only rearranged
I would ask you how you would feel
if you were me
But you wouldn't truly know unless our
skin tones were exchanged
A black mother with tears in her eyes
Hearing that her unarmed child
was shot five times
Two times for Martin
Three times for Malcolm
We fought with peace
We fought with violence
But got the same outcome
A black father holds back his tears
Hearing that the murderer was
Sentenced 0 years
With a tap on the wrist
And the chargers cleared
A black child’s fear
That their lives could disappear
At the hands of a man
With a gun and bulletproof gear
A messed up system
Diagnosing symptoms
I’m weak at the knees
The African-American Disease
Written by
Azariah Jones  Hampton, GA
(Hampton, GA)   
   wren cole
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