To the Trombone Player Behind Me

Just because your kind harnessed and branded their kind

does not allow you to claim the same.

You are not our parent’s generation.

But still,

the blood of slavery cracks on your feet as you dance in supremacy bought with multitudinous

beatings.

Your racism belongs in the past,

the attic of used to be while the rest of your generation progresses in the parlor room

named the 21st Century.

We will be defying the innate desire to segregate

while you drown in stubborn ignorance,

flowing into your nostrils and choking your ego,

hollowing out your body until you become

an empty casket of flesh.

The white savage,

shining in your eyes,

mirrors your intentions.

The enemy of peace: superiority is a falsity centuries old

like the great wall of flesh

that defies us.

 
Poetry Slam: 

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