Coloured 

I was innocent, until you outlawed my existence. I was free of charges, until you put me up for sale. 

I was suddenly unwelcome, in your so called home, because I stopped hanging out in your fields. 

I had a dream so real, it woke you up, on the wrong side of the bed…

You ran so far ahead, of the truth, before I found my feet. You still had time to look behind and watch me stumble in amusement.

You limited my choices, because I refused to pick, when you asked.

You tell me my face is ugly, and give me yours as a mask. 

 I worked hard, for a while, amassing a woodpile, only to later burn it. In attempts to draw attention, to a fire you started. You use that same flame to torch holes in my history, later to fill them in with ego fuelled lies.

I was a blank canvas, until you coloured me black. You now refuse to look at your own painting. 

The gloomy heirloom built on generations of pain; decorated in every shade of genocide. 

Whether you choose to accept credit for the disaster master piece inspired by hate,fear, and fate;

or acknowledge that, you, neither held a whip nor hold the blame 

Without any change in the patterns our colours make, you will gain from these moral stains all the same. 

 

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