The Sharpie

They took the sharp smell of permanen(ce)t markers And drew little boxes around us. Separating by class, by religion, by sex, by race. Categorizing neat little boxes of the human specimen like if we could just find a place to put everyone On shelves like dolls or books you don't read anymore. But we're not dolls We move on our own, sometimes without even noticing But we are not books no longer read Someone new is always reading our story. And though if told enough times that a line of sharpie will prevent you from moving We might fall for it, there will some day be some one who regocnizes that it's only two dimensions in a three dimensional world