protest poem

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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.  
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