Patterns of a Melting Pot

We mix and twirl,

sinuous whips.

We bump our heads

and shake our fists.

Yet, for once do we ever truly coexist,

In this melting pot, we call our own?

We wrote it on paper,

scribbled the truce.

But, where do both stand?

Who sleeps in the noose?

Is a pattern among men really too obtuse,

In this melting pot, we call our own?

Imagine a land

of two little clans,

one had small fingers,

the other, large hands.

And neither could peacefully live on this land,

In the melting pot, they called their own.

They burned down the homes

of opposing men.

Look at their hands!?

Who concocted such sin?

But, these just were the times in which they had lived,

In the melting pot, they called their own.

Is this truly sane?

Or a dumb, dirty dream?

Brothers of man

on two seperate teams?

This nightmare quietly looms upon me,

in this "melting pot", we call our own.

For this is not very different,

from the world which we share.

We claim to be equal,

but, do we really care?

And with this our primal minds are snared,

In this melting pot, we call our own.

How I wish I could change

the way people see.

Not the color or race,

but the canvas beneath.

And then only then, will there be peace,

In this melting pot, we call our own.