No, it's not me!

I gave it a second round,
Of deeper reflecting,
And 'twas abundantly clear,
The fault was your own making.
It's your tribalist, broken, soul,
In quasi-eternal slumber,
And not the melanin in my skin,
So far as I can remember,
That's wrong and unqualified;
But if being what I am’s crime,
I'm a proud felon, it does seem,
Serving my precious time,
In your stupid dream.