The Negro

My Being

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A bliss which gives a glimpse
Unfolding the calamities we fear
Up at the burning sun, we look for hope
Shaking like the leaves we pray to cope.

Succumbing to the hardships imposed on us
Not from the heavens but from our yearnings
Dry are our hearts
For civilisation sucks out our meaning.

Hanging on strings
Our nature we avail for hell
Bathing in ash
My demon a I regret of hosting

Smoking it out, my new aim
Picking the traits of justice
As we know not where to head
I just need to hold on to my being.

The Haymaker®

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The Haymaker

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