Retching On The Dirt

I'm retching on the dirt,

Its earthiness coating my throat.

I'm wincing on the bitterest pill.

I refuse to swallow.

I'm offered the warmth of a velvet gloves,

An iron fist to some.

I'm treated like a scab.

A traitor in my kind.

I'm hounded by white-right might

That wants the country pure.

I'm incensed by those in awe

Of living amongst their own.

Selective perfection will cut their own throats!

I'm constantly forcing the point,

But were all retching on dist,

And well choke if we don't spit it out!