A book—Book of Life you call it?

What can your Book tell of the supposed life I have chosen?

Can it acquit me of my unwilling contribution to the institution

that has enslaved my mind, soul, and spirit?

An intrusion is what it really is.

A lame excuse to justify the abuse accompanied by tolls, toils, and the utter deterrence

of humanity I have faced. 

Can your Book fill every nook and cranny of my so-called dim witted mind?

Will it satisfy my crimson-stained mind?

The lines—lines of this Book.

Do they have a hook—a catch?

Do they offer a net to gather up the pain left—

Over the false hope of equality, I am.

I can’t stand the glossed over perversions of man.

They rejoice that a new day, a new era shall soon arise.

However, the unending pain still lies.

Lies are what they tell me.

Lies become the truth.

Lies that have made my mind become a destitute mold for their vile souls.

How can this Book tell me of forgiveness?

How can I be the one expected to progress?

I am the one who lies empty and broken.

I deserve to feel as if I am unspoken for.

Alas, this is not the case

For I make my own choices and define my race.