With tears of confusion stinging his eyes,
the boy asked his mother, “Why aren’t we the same?”
She looked lovingly at him and explained,
“We are all the same, even though we have a different frame.”
So then the question arises,
for the despair, who is to blame?
Should shame be on those who hate others just for being different?
Saddened are those who spent all of their time being so bent,
but why should my pigment be my torment?

Is this what life is supposed to be like?
Where riding your bike in the wrong area can get you a strike?
Out of line if you speak out,
about the discrimination, where the right words will cause a bout.
Our understanding seems frozen until we break out
of greed, corruption, prejudice, envy, and lying.
People dying, mothers crying, and violence because of nothing.
But anything could help when your life hangs by a string.
Strung along sheep cast their ignorance with the swing
of their crude weapons or hurtful exclaim
with intent to defame and purpose to maim.
I wonder if we really are the same?