Found this poetry in my notes from 2015:
Racism it’s a system. A schism state down the line of wisdom. It’s pretension, arrogant, cataclysm, ward of asylum, wars brought by blindness, a game for the highness, a flame soaked in dryness, kindred spirits dissed in minutes, a face filled with slime but no one’s spittin. A long silent dialogue that hasn’t been written, between the souls of oppression and the ones they call american, the names are so clear but truth is so hidden, words to a song with an imaginary rhythm, have graced the prophets who pens still lie smidgeless, from the forests of Oconee to the plains of Great Briton, what can be clear is there’s nothing but vision, of stars that will shine when they leap from their prison. So join us now in this flame that has risen to conquer the cowards and surry ill-drivens, if we can’t live this way, then life’s not worth livin.