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Lucas Figueroa Sep 2016
Just one more step; they tell me.
I will learn more and breathe more; find more before me.

Just one more step; they show me.
I will know great gates to gape at, homogeneous humans to home with, long songs to prolong me.

Just one more step; they teach me.
To understand how to be grand planned and never bland, to behave like the brave as a slave that never craves the grave, to know more woe than I can stow inside me.

Just one more step; they ask me.
Of abilities that act as facilities for my hostilities, of words like herds of birds that swarm me, of feasible inconceivables, of the thoughts that act me.

Just one more step; they force me.
To be here and there and everywhere that isn't here or there, to be society's variety of anxiety's propriety, to be the enemy of not me.

Just one more step; they exclaim me.
Be wary of any eerie theory that seems dreary, to fight through any plight that is a blight to my slight civil right, to know those who chose to oppose me.

Just one more step; they assure me.
To have my ravenous happiness that is my animus to my sadness, to have control over every knoll or troll that follows a similar scroll, to have relatives sensitive to my negative perspective, to have fought for my values on my volumes filled with my statutes, to have fashioned my passion that rations me.

Just one more step; just one more.

— The End —