no, I'm not looking for recognition on this road without an end. Lights flash behind my rear view sight, my stomach drops into my gut and I'm afraid. It slowly passes by and the relief drops me into an ocean 3,000 miles deep,

I have these dreams of different memories
sidewalks without ends and a
cranberry taste lingering within
reality doesn't exist because this
isn't real to me
-

justice isn't a word- a fragment broken off our people, the ones we are supposed to trust like storybooks read as we daze off
freedom isn't a word- it's a memory of something that didn't happen
a cold honest truth
of a wish no genie has found the power to grant

if there is such things tell me; where do I find waterparks of pride, or a place called freedom other than that gas station on left maple drive

is this not what we all want?
being mixed in this cycle, having our parents not sign that permission slip;
not have the knowledge of the feigned confidence they led would someday catch them