Green America,
Oh how we love you...
My memories are not like yours.
They aren't like his or hers...
I live in a prison
Thats what I call my home...
Written wen i was 17;
I'm starting to realize...
People always say that
the people how were black are this and that...
With your hand
reach out and...
Who We Are
Black or white, religion or race...
So the centre of gravity are we?
The writing between the paper and a pen...
He... standing by the corner,, deranged in red...
she... staring at the stars,, frozen in death's...
The memories that haunt me are those of my own...
All genocide
is fratricide...
All of us feel like dead ends
for the lies just keep slipping...