Vocal wounds

Your loose strands of silky brown hair
That dance about and hang freely in the air,
They make you feel good, don’t they?
The way no one sees crime in your eyes
Lest you pull a gun to their head,
It makes you feel special, doesn’t it?
And the way law is structured to suit you
Except when those of your own kind pursuit you,
It makes you feel safe, doesn’t it?

The slurs you utter from your “deemed divine mouth”
The same voice with which you sing on Sunday – so holy and devout
Makes you feel clean, doesn’t it?
And the hate you show for one who’d be mistaken for you in the mirror
Based on life choices and religious beliefs that differ,
It makes you feel special, doesn’t it?

Well, I scorched my hair under the sun in your fields,
The same fields from which my forefathers hung and died by your rope,
But then – I complain too much, don’t I?
And I can’t wear a hoodie to cover my head in the wind
Or you’ll mistake me for my brother, Thomas who once stole from you
After all – we all look the same, don’t we?
But then this same “Thomas” man who you dearly claim I know
Cannot defend himself or talk in the court of law,
Oh, my foul mouth… – he was born guilty, wasn’t he?

I do appreciate though that you’ve shown me good,
Given me a name and baptized me in the name of the Lord,
But why change his words to suit your own?…
Oh you are of chosen blood, aren’t you?
But then shall everyone nod upon your word
And believe in anything you label true
We all have a choice, don’t we?

I too am not any much cleaner than you
I tend to run from my duties and my family too
Maybe I do put a little much blame on you
But your callous past life gave me every single excuse to
I wish I could also stay away from crime
And all the liquor and bad things I used to take in my prime
But how else can I escape this caged war we’re in
Two butterflies fighting for air
Don’t we have more than enough voices that can speak
And redirect the slurs we exchange unto the evil that splits us
We feel pain in the exact same way as the one another
Flip the coin and see my side of the story.
I know you hate the crime I commit
But how else shall I give my four-year-old daughter food to eat
When you don’t want me anywhere near your workplaces.
But then again, how are you to trust my commitment and promises
When my deeds around and about are mentioned in low voices
And I’ve been reckless with many a trigger and made bad choices.
I’ve killed your own with the same hate which I accuse you of promoting
Which has done little good to the hopes us healing
The countless wounds we’ve caused each other
While we still have time, let us try talking
For I am what you are and we complement one another