Oh how I hope for a time,
A time where skin color wouldn\'t define our beings,
A time where we could all seem equal even when we know we\'re not.
The time,
How does it feel to have a sense of power in a world of pure destruction?
In a world filled with racism, creeping and crawling,
Hiding in every corner,
Masking itself on the faces and in the hearts of the ones that we hold dear to us.
Old friends, family members, teachers, and classmates.
How do you not see the hatred, the burning passion that lies inside of that dormant mind?
The one with the belittled sense of respect, the indecency of its every contraction,
The fire that burns in their eyes as if their very soul had been set on fire
This difference,
This one thing that separates our people from good and evil
The one that breaks minds, spirits, souls, and hopes.
Many may ask me,
\"Why do you always write of cold times? Where is the whole-hearted passion?\"
Don\'t ask me where. Because I couldn\'t tell you.
My passion is to write,
To write of times both new and old,
Something that would awaken an immortal place of victorious upbringing and influence,
Not caring what people have to say about it.
But answer this,
How does someone speak of mind-enriching things in a world where there is nothing but broken spirits?
Left to crumble on their own and scatter like puzzle pieces in an empty space.
How do you contribute to this lifestyle?
How do you LIVE somewhere full of so much death?
No diversity is welcomed,
No opinion is respected.
You tell me,
How do YOU live this lifestyle?