Indigenous Rights
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I am from a city
A city full of colored faces and still filled with their own discrimination and racism
What does it matter?
The race of them, it doesn't matter,
They continue to try to make a fool out of me.
Zibit
We the capital, spell it in letters with all caps
Not a felon and making treasure in our crap,
Harder melanin skin our texture is hard glass,
Watermelonin' your head combatants with artifacts
There amongst the fallen trees and rivers of black.
Voices and laughter can be heard across the trees,
the autumn leaves soak up my mother's blood.
Stars once shimmered and danced across the skies,
