protest poem
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I'm very disappointed in "responsibility" in general. I come across as the wrench in the machine by using the word "you" but you see why.
Admiring his handiwork, he stood
Before the wall drenched in paint.
They compared him to Banksy; they would
Claim he could draw anything, without complaint.
But comparison to anyone was degrading,
I talk about Protest, they think that I’m just adding more stress
But I cannot stop because We need progress
"Follow your dreams!" they say.
But how do they expect us to do this
When we are meant to fit into the
Cookie-cutter mold that they have made for us.
The fire comes down and it opens my lungs up
To the sky that never wanted to be free
But the clouds run over my bloodstream
Straight through my heart
And out throught my eyes and I can see
Blood trickled down her skin,
She did it herself,
She’s very proud of her win.
Red stains spread to the floor,
Drip,
Drop,
Drip!
Each new puddle is an exit door.
