I write, seemingly unending
and years later when I look back at my troubles

I realize

I never wrote a thing of meaning

We are writing unprepared speeches for white men and their teachers,

we are young tormented creatures, the fault of our preachers,

we are old faceless features, the fault...of ourselves.

       On shelves  we sit and the dust and the grit in our eyes is black like our lies because

       these white men are screaming

       their teachers are dreaming

and the young tormented creatures are weeping for our losses,

our preachers,

the bosses,

are keeping our souls from us.

       There is no more trust in ourselves,

       as our old faceless features are weeping from non-existent pores

       the doors are closing, sealing us in.

But,

All of these people have got the keys to our minds, our hearts

and all the while we sit on our shelves, curled into ourselves,

       and wail,

       pale in the artificial moonlight.

Maybe it's better this way.

Fall and call and hope to borrow,
The sun, the moon, the winds and sorrow,
With eyes like glass and cheeks pulled hollow,
Full of acid too strong to swallow.