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brother I don't know why
we are done this way
maybe I over exaggerate
or a little bit paranoid
anxiously agitated
do I have to apologize
for my poetic politics
do I have the right to
write poems is my prose
causing anyone harm
can I pose for the photo
can it not be torn up
flow mode = turnt Up
pen too hot to handle
like stove pilots turned up
on high blue flames
warms hands of a cold soul
London bridges are falling down
no longer a song children sing
on the playground you have
to touch the ground to hear
the sound of what's going down
to know what's up
brother my brother
it's truly too many of you dying
mother, mother soon you will
stop crying look around
see what's going on
and wake up everybody
