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Email: Slimmy18 (nospam) aol.com
23 Dec 2002
A poem of unending confusion
Life was never given
Born into a blissful world full of fabricated ignorance
A soul full of wonderment
Abandoned at every turn
A past forgotten, a land never won
These are the things that are left
to those who have no identity
Except an American one
But to be an AMerican is to deny identity
You shall not be AMerican because those are the Native Sons
You cannot claim identity because you are the forgotten one's.
These are the things that lurk into the night of my dreams
The mere thought of white in a society that fears, hates and defiles whites
The mere thought of being a man in a society that cannot stand men.
How Do you react to those?
A forgotten Identity, as a bastard son
A forgotten identity where ancestors built the bridges, and walked the streets
To those who broke the bridges down and screamed the etrnal flame of freedom only to be co-opted and bought out
A sense of belonging in a world that does not want you to belong, or you want to belong to it
To begin to understand the abstract plane of existance and contemplate life on the stand of a breath and the deepness of identity within a plane of reality that cannot contain these thoughts,
that cannot expunge the words of wealth, wisdom, and beauty.
To live in the world of life and yet be so lifeless.
To live in a world of hope and yet be so hopeless
The recalimation of dreams, identity and life begins as the words leave my mind and flow to paper.
Reclaimation of a thought to reclaim thoughts not yet forgotten and not yet one.
Ideas float in the air and whispers words so clear, only then will the reclaimation be won.