Their gaits do not open up chance and change
Their scalps do not shed hairs of dormancy
Their wounds do not fade into scars of wisdom
Their fingernails do not hide grains of the rich earth
They are not us

Their pictures show not progression and matching aesthetic
Their clothes speak nothing of pride and unity
Their books talk not of knowledge and autocracy
Their homes house not the gist nor power
They are not us

Their standards are whirlpools waiting to be inflicted
Their paths are made from allusions of miseducation
Their purpose reflects roots troubled with uncertainty
Their identity opens that grayscale static
They are not us

Their mouths are not moistened to speak shades of life
Their kaleidoscopic sight is not enough to give colour
Their minds do not harvest realities worth descent
Their souls are not old enough to bring meaning to experience

They are not us

They could never be us.