my feet weren’t quick enough to outrun him
everywhere I turned was a dead end
translation: everywhere I turn
my name was already a prayer in someone’s mouth
my body was already a casket prepped for mourning
I’ve begun to let death condensate my head so often
I witness my own blood pour in my dreams
and in this nightmare
the man carries a blade which reflects the sun
translation: there is a light at the end of each tunnel
even if the tunnel is my own chest
and in this nightmare, i tried to fight back
throw my fist like this be a rally
but he don’t play the game of protest
he ain’t got no patience for murder
i’ve seen his kind before;
Nazi sign tatted on his forehead stating:
            ‘don’t fuck with me
            i’ll curb stomp the shit out of you’
and i know he means it
that his intentions are as bold
as burnt crosses on Sabbath morning

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