I guess they were hoping to beat the the fight out of us scare the life out of us To stuff peaceful resistance down our throats keep us quiet and complacent while they drag us through the mud back us into a corner like scared, hungry dogs drive the pigment from our skin and rename it fear. The man on the TV told me I should be ashamed that we are responsible for the broken windows, the bottles, the fires the flames I turned it off wrote a letter, etched it on my heart and said it is you who will be judged Not by the system which was never designed to protect us but by the eyes of the world- you who will be on the wrong side of history. His words echoed in my head “those people have no morals” Well… those people are dying to live those people are preparing for the day when their sons and daughters don’t come home those people are praying to Gods with shrugged shoulders and closed eyes who have yet to respond those people are keeping their hands raise...
In kindergarten I was the bane of every 5 year old artist’s existence. I would notoriously use up both the black and white crayons on family drawing day. Eventually I switched too fuzzy wuzzy brown, antique brass, tumbleweed or burnt sienna. I envied the kids who could use peach or shadowbox without mixing. These days I color my self electric lime, no one ever complains if that’s used up.
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