I listen to her,

I see her plight.

Righteousness has not come upon her doorstep.
The DNA that is in me

is twisted.

Hers is only pure



Atrophying in the low sun

Shriveling up once the darkness draws near.
Do you think she’ll have a chance?

Do you believe that she’ll make it?

I cry.
I have no dollars, but I have the hair.

I have no glory, but I have the pigment.

We should all melt like crayons in this great big melting pot.
We will one day.