Grime soaked fingernails
        Plastered crusty smiles.
The world passes by at 80 mph.
We are warped into
Clunking metal,
We are one with shrieking steel
And I am the queen of this mess.

The day weaves through our time distraught bodies,
as we lay in constant wonder of where to go next.
There is no left, no right, no ups, and no downs,
just empty road and destinations unknown.
Maybe they'll care as we run into the sun,
or maybe they'll never notice out of the windows of their $100,000 cars.
And you're mother will shed her tears,
and my sister will shove guilt down my throat,
but the day is ours, life is ours.
So we'll tread through their woes and their words,
we'll grapple onto our beliefs like a child to the holy breast.
We'll stay nourished by our hopes, our love, our never ending fight.
We'll run into the sun,
run into the night,
run until our legs cry NO MORE.
And they'll say we're crazy,
when they look at our mangled corpses.
But hand in hand we'll always be,
because we are the ones truly dying for
FREEDOM.

Life submerged in morning caffeination and a quick nicotine fix.
People shake away the fog and babies wail for satisfaction.
Sheets tied around their ankles,
as crusted eyes peer into a new day
and at a lover still sound in yesterday.
A cigarette burns, it's alright.
Coffee drains, and we know it'll all be alright.
As long as the night rests,
we know another day will make it all alright

Our Mother mourns blood spilled but once a year,
yet never casts a single eye on her ravaged thirsty sons,
or the slaughter heard around the world.
Innocents without a drop of guilt,
crowd the rivers,
rotting in the streets on live television.
Our Mother spits on their shade of skin,
their ways of worship,
their ways of living.
Our fellow folk gorge at the local Mcdonalds
thinking terrorism at any "strange" looking stranger.
Aren't these blue jeans thrown together by a Chinese sweat shop child
American enough for?
Isn't this greased up slab of corpse screaming,
"America land of the free, home of the brave!"
Or when you look deep into that carbonated blood bath do you see the truth,
"America land of the freedom killers, home of the cowards."

His presence was made like
an unruly, unwelcome,  winter storm.
Chilling us to the bone, icing over our window panes,
and grasping for the very air in our lungs.
He came upon us like an intruder.
He came upon us like a deprived hope.
Just as swiftly as he came,
as graceless as he went.

Our America sulks in the gutters,

   in the rotten alleyways of those living in the shadows.

As corporations, as greed, as self-obsession

damages our life web.

Our America loves the lonely dying child,

as suburban 'mother's **** the illegal pool boy.

Our America peers through holey, worn fabrics

as bare-fleshed youth slaughter for

sweatshop brands.

Our America becomes the past

                     becomes unknown

                     becomes a dead fad

as mysterious men lure the idea of a future.

Freedom sprouts
from the unintentional corpses
slumbering in the cat infested alleyways
of our drunken fathers
and mistaken mothers.