Hollow shells panging concrete ever so methodically.
We are all products of our environment; what we feel, smell, hear and see
The roots vine from below and the buds bloom from there too
Are we not just like they, fashioned from the hand - to live underneath the big black blue ?
Oh. I was dropped in the dirt. Made from the grave .
Grew up in-between pavement, from whenst my forefathers came
Tussled in the grass, mixed with things that don’t mix with me
Plastic & rubble and abuse all bleeding inside of me
Who tore my flesh and gave my spirit a new name ?
Who stole what was not theirs and tatted their slime within my veins ?
What gives IT the right to take and ravish what is not theirs !
Yet they wonder why they can’t walk into a play-place without getting stares
I was mixed with things that do not mix with me
You were made to laugh and live comfortably
All things come to an end - yes, good and bad
So why must mixed things seem to be so so sad ?