Why does the sense of my presence make other people so tense?

Is it my skin, language, or essence?

How do you view me?

With the inevitable look of society

That of a criminal, worthy of making you clutch your purse

Making cops want to have me without a pulse

The intensity of my life is that of non comparability

Where only those like me are able to relate and try to find clarity

Trying to survive with you, the essence of my failed slaved work?

With a Brocken back and only being know for tortillas with pork?

No I am here to be revolutionary where we are not composed of intense masculine tyranny

Where I am currently morally terribly villainy of a felony 

The felony of causing death

But change is needed until our last breath