I’m wounded, don’t touch me

Confessions of an Urban Shaman

I embody all the ills
400 some odd years have dusted my skin
And you continue to harness your
Rage with tasers and guns
Poll padding rhetoric,
See I walk everyday to swing a
Public ride and feel bullets
In whispers, fox news quips
Break room soundbites
Cause I’m not like them
Is it OK if I say this around you?
The seats are cold against my skin
Like bullets and blades
My babies fear that daddy
May not come home
Mama cries into her pillow
Cause we’re all hot heads
Her boys have no fear
she raised us to give a damn
And have spines
And we might die….
I embody all your ills
But I don’t shoot up churches
Schools and movie theaters
I work for low wages
Still though I strive
Cause my knees aren’t made
To be on at your whim
So fuck your bullets

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