silence
is a tourniquet tied hastily
for wounds we give each other
with boxcutters for eyes
and the sneer rising in voices
like nine in the morning steam
from mugs
there's some of us who see them
a lost Black battalion of brothers
hurting with closed fists
bullheaded in china shops
with lousy credit
trying to shout down
this feeling of melanin misery
live long enough in these streets
and you'll sport your own cuts
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