My rage knows no
Boundaries
No arbitrary lines
nor confines
of cages
found in places
where love should be.
And why is it that
empathy is a mystery
when history
is looking you directly
in the face?
A disgrace
to the fallen ‘saints’,
whose names spoken
in vain,
are weaponized to
taint that which
is your saving grace.
If your duty
is to founding fathers,
look no farther
than the harbours
you dishonour
and the sanctuaries
you raze, leaving
orphans in your wake.
No fathers to be found
when they’re bound in
chains.
No, my rage has no name.
No sign, nor plaque
nor display could
properly convey
the anger that blooms
after hope is slain &
families are torn away
from that pursuit
of bliss promised
to us when it was writ
all men were created the same…
except for page after page
after page of blood stained hypocrisy—
making a mockery of the signatures
engraved into your independence day.
You should be ashamed.
For there is clearly a reason your
icéd grasp is
synonymous with tear gas
and pain.
And if karmic justice is delayed…
the only hope that remains
is that this nameless rage
will follow you to your doom &
will haunt you even as you lie—
as you so often do—
with the rest of us in a
fucking mass grave.
