Without a Raise of the Hand

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Without a raise of the hand, I stood

Knowing that I could be stifled, I know I did not care.

Without a raise of the hand, I spoke

Meaning no disrespect, but respect was the only matter on my mind.

And without raising my hand...

 

What's the point?

Look around and tell me what you see

Asking permission to urinate in restrooms with no stall doors

Walking on broken tile floors to classes where I learn little or nothing

And learn how wrong that is from the one who truly does not care, not me

 

What's the point?

Please tell me how you can say that having done it yourself?

Witnessing injustice and torment for some while others seem so blind to it all

Holding hands only to be torn from one another by bells and whores

Taking one more look at your family

And deciding one more is not enough

 

What's the point

If you tell me that this is all there is, what is the point? 

What more can we do than what we're doing now?

What else is there when all I see are swollen bellies, undialated eyes, and fear?

When after departing from hell, some go for another ride

And still have your eight pages of notes to write?

 

Without a raise of the hand, I asked

What's the point?

How dare you say that these are the best years of our lives.

 

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