a skinheads story.

my skinhead way's are as normal as any other. but yet I'm still hated above all others. why?

Here I am on a cold street, disgust in the eyes of the people around me. you have no fear speaking your mind with your friends and family, but you cower to the judgment of stranger's in a city so large you'll never meet again?

all around me, my brothers sing the songs of war and of love,  that carried men's spirits since the were first uttered years before our time. fingers point to the sky in a salute to our fallen brothers and glorious leaders, who fight and bleed with the rest of us, rather then hide miles behind us like the filth we bring in to run this country, little did we know they were running us into the ground.

a woman walks up to me, baby in one arm, coffee and a cigarette in the other, the smoke and steam swirling together, into the infant's face. this sight makes me feel sick, is it because of the way people mistreat the freedom they don't deserve, or is it the sound of the baby coughing that churns my stomach?

she spits into the gutter and looks at me, sun gleaming off the "golden" hoops in her ears as she shouts the normal abuse we learn to expect, we hear it as much as our own names on most days. scum, animals, racist's.  no,  skinheads.

our boots echo like thunder as we march, our hair short and smart. the braces cling to my shoulders, like I cling to my faith that one of these day's I can wake up without the harassment of the ignorant, the judgment of coward's and the neglect of those who should care for me above my skinhead family, my real family. you think we're all fun and games? try playing when the rules are against you.

The End

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