Racism
It’s not realism —
It’s racism.
A whole force bleeding on the pavement
Like Stephen.
Uniforms draped in corruption,
Badges shining with injustice.
And they wonder
Why we don’t trust this?
Because every headline bleeds the same.
Another name.
Another face.
Another life reduced
To a hashtag case.
It’s just colour.
It’s just skin.
But they weigh it
Like it’s guilt,
Like it’s sin.
A man should be judged
By the fire inside,
By the values he lives,
By the truth he can’t hide —
Not his accent,
Not the shade of his skin,
Not the country
His parents were born in.
But here we are,
Decades deep in denial,
Marching in circles,
Adding names to the pile.
And they tell us to calm down.
To “move on.”
But how do you heal
When the wound stays open,
And the bleeding goes on?
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