Anger at their definitions,
Their falsely written accusations,
Their pre-planned stereotypes,
Designed to keep us encaged,
Shackle our civil liberties,
To a page of the Human Rights Declaration,
Dedicated to terrorists,
Because of the colour of my skin.
To ask who the terrorist is?
Does my skin have embedded in it,
Does it run through my veins?
Changing everything I stand for,
T-E-R-R-O-R-I-S-T to you?
I suppose it’s my melanin,
I suppose you spell it differently.
I guess you draw it,
From the comfortable seat of your predator drone,
From the control room,
As you select your next target,
Destroying another one of my villages,
Ending another dozen lives,
Killing an innocent civilian,
A child, murdering him ruthlessly,
I guess that doesn’t matter though,
I suppose it comes naturally to you,
Maybe it helps to hide your guilt?
I guess it suits you to tie it to my colour,
Rather than smear the blood,
Across your own,
Red, White and Blue,
I guess my nanny was always right,
You’d prefer to label me,
Before you smell your own stench.
We’ll just await the day,
You open your eyes,
And your Red, White and Blue,
Are drenched in all the blood you spilt,
The day the justice in my words,
Will be its greatest truth,
The day I’m no longer the victim,
But you are still the oppressor,
The day you taste your terror,