If you die today in a pile of senseless violence,
Someone is bound to ask why.
They’ll make assumptions and guess,
Why the killer thought his life meant more,
Why he thought your life meant less,
Others will leap to color everything ugly
Calling the victim: gangster, terrorist, foreign, threat, deserving
And the killer goes from menace to hero
From Frankenstein’s creature to Superman,
Because people forget we all bleed the same,
Movies teach us to celebrate
When the bad guy dies.
They also teach us the bad guy’s us.
Those who control our eyes
Feed the product of our minds,
To embrace the reality of Self-inflicted slavery
Of begging to be cut up, bleached, stuffed again,
To fit the vision of some man
Who sees the world as black and white
Who’s barely learning now
That you can’t make colors not exist,
You just have to make them mean
I wrote this poem 10 months ago. Not much has changed.