Foggy Bottom

Rage, rage, rage, that's what I feel as a Black man. This is not your struggle, this is mine. Dissecting these lines; fine, make sense of what? History is written in a similar fashion to the dictatorship of Tut. Everything we know about this life could be junk; fake, fictitious, false and fraudulent. What ever you want to call it. The Bible says, Gods time is not like our time. So who created calenders and clocks, complete with all the fancy rhetoric for us to abide by, as truth? To the youth. Ever question the past? Our past, being compiled then compressed into the shortest and coldest month, every year, that we just glad to have, sad. This is not about your struggle, and honestly, I don't care. You don't care about my pain and despair, my sorrows and my nightmares. You could care less that I wake up from crying purple tears in my dreams or that I barely eat, losing weight in my sleep; but I'm growing stronger from being under the influence of oppression in the streets. Congratulate who? Where do I need to send my special thanks to? My heart pumps copper bullets while my chest bleeds red truth. I see what you don't want to. What you choose to see, I don't acknowledge. So if Jesus Christ died with a promise of eternal life and free love, then it applies to all gangsters, degenerates and thugs! Share wisdom. Even a wise man listens.