Scott Peterson was a resource officer, armed, on campus.
He was too cowardly to risk his life and save those children
that he was supposed to protect.

As children were dying, he was outside crying, scared, lying to himself.
Telling himself that he wanted to live while our youth died,
telling himself that he mattered more than them.
Scott Peterson, a coward,
The shame of this country.
A house realtor steals jewelry and valuables from his clients
out in sunny Arizona.
As if he didn't have a lot of money already.
Speaking of money,
Dear Mr. "President,"
Is that all there is anymore?
Is that what all politicians are after?
As people are starving on the streets, living in ghettos;
As children are getting shot in their own schools,
Pleading for you to change our laws and you turn a blind eye,
all you do is look for more opportunities
to earn money for yourself.
Mr. "President,"
We all know your speeches are written for you,
they're scripted,
You're told what to say.
You pretend like you care about the wellbeing of the common people.
The people like me, the people living on the streets.
But you don't.
You are a greedy, selfish man, who was voted into office by people who are just as greedy and selfish as you.
I'm probably going to get threatened,
and told that I'm stupid for thinking that all this country is,
is shameful and cowardly,
greedy, idiotic, cruel, and profound.
I'm going to be told that I don't know what I'm talking about.
I've only been alive for 18 years, how could I possibly know anything about how the world works?
The thing is,
I don't.
I have no idea how the world works,
but I know that something is wrong when my classmates and I are scared
to walk into school every day.
Something needs to change.
You, the so called president,
You, our elders and old timers,
We, as a society, need to change.

We can't keep acting like this because if we do, our already crumbling country,
is going to fall apart.
Welcome to America, everybody.
The Land of the Greed, and the Home of the Shame.
I fucking hate this place.
mint 1d
the world doesn’t feel the same anymore
these past few years the air has slowly been tinted black
thickening, viscous and sour around our bones
breaking the ones below and leaving some of us to watch helpless
waiting for the air to rise
although somehow
coming from above
bullets shot in the dark didn’t make much sound
until finally youthful
tear stained faces
pulled the bullets up into clear air in their grasps and observed what we’ve become
with a clarity none of us knew
a clarity none of those people know
them with the black tinted air flowing from their mouths
becoming more sour, and more heavy with each breath, each utterance
each denial
they make
youthful faces with words far stronger than bullets

aimed at those who exhale black

the world is different now
we all felt like dissolving in the despair
fortified by it

i join hands with my peers and we climb up above the earth
fight our way up
to the artificial atmosphere
and we throw our fists at the oppressive black film surrounding the earth
we hurl our bodies into it
we scream
we cry

we cra c k it open

one inch at a time
this is me just expressing how i feel about being an american today *sigh*
April 1d
I, too, sing America.
I am of the brave, one of the free.
They hide my voice behind my too short years,
Yet I speak a truth, and they must hear!
But most ignore the clarion call,
And hide behind their painted doors,
And place their trust in ignorance.
Tomorrow, they must hear my cries!
I'll tell them, they must act, and soon;
I speak a truth, and they must hear!
Nobody'll doubt my vision then;
My age will make no difference, then.
I see the truth that they will see,
And no one more will doubt in me.
Besides, the truth is shining clear,
They'll see it soon, and they will hear,
And they will act, as I now try, for
I, too, am America.
This poem is based off of Hughes' "I too, sing America." Some of the lines begin with the same words, and the first and last lines are his.
I, too, sing America.
I am not like others, but
They tell me that they
Know my pain.
But they don't.
And I try.
And I fail.
"Tomorrow is a new day," they say.
I'll be damned, they don't
Know my pain.
Nobody'll understand
The daily struggle.
My fears.
My hopes for the future.
They'll be afraid of me,
And they have a right to be.
I, too, am America.
Done for an English assignment, posted here because I liked it a lot.
Inspired by Langston Hughes' "I, Too, Sing America."
Tropico 3d
Face masks our insecurities as we fill them on our news feeds
Children dying from mass shootings as we snapchat our fragmented selfies
Laying under blankets at night with that big shiny bright light
Swallowing a pill for the night
Hoping to forget the fright
The underbelly of our collective psyche,
has been cut open from the gut and gun pokin’,
now the sadness runs rampant,
in the flooded streets of these American dreams,

see in this scene things aren’t always what they seem,
especially when viewed on a screen that’s green,

she says her father doesn’t bother to call her,
says he lives in Vegas where he lost his job,
just another unemployed American off the assembly line,
now he takes care of his mom who’s lost her mind,

gone senile from years of denial that her son is an alcoholic pedophile,

meanwhile resistance is still futile,

and this son of this mom is the father of the girl I’m with now,
as we lay in bed talking about trivial things instead,
of what really matters which is what we’re doing with this life,
just passing time until we’re all dead I guess,

feeling like an abstract painting of American Commentary,
a dissenting dissertation of this perverse dystopia,
don’t mention most things that are worth mentioning,
which is part of the problem that keeps repeating in amounts that’re copious,

and I’d continue with these verses and get more in depth,
but I’m being rude to the nervous girl in my bed,
so I better get off this laptop and back to that jackpot,
or rather Jill pot whatever that means I’d rather be misunderstood instead,

and that’s why I don’t mind if they don’t understand what I said,

or rather don’t understand the words that I wrote when they’re read,


the underbelly of our collective psyche,
has been cut open from the gut pokin’,
now the sadness runs rampant,
in the flooded streets of this American dream,

see in this scene things aren’t always what they seem,
especially when viewed on a screen that’s green…

∆ LaLux ∆

Free link for new book:
don't be my green light.
don't be the daisy to my gatsby.
don't be my dream,
my unattainable dream.
America, I am told, was once a gleaming jewel
cut and polished by men with dirty hands
and set in a western crown worn by Lady Liberty.

America, I hear, had hills full of gold
and rivers full of wishes and they always flooded
and watered the land and made things grow tall and strong.

I heard in a song once that this land was made for you and me,
that America was a place of possibility, prosperity,
and that I can follow my footsteps to find my way home.

Home. Home of the brave. Home of justice,
freedom, faith. Home of color, of pride, and opportunity.
Home of We the People and unity.

But I have never known this America,
and this America has not known me.

America has turned its back to those
who broke theirs in trying to lift her.
America has held the whip for far too long.

America has pulled the plug and
now the drain is clogged with the dying.
America is deaf to their dying songs.

America has told us that
we are right where we belong, but oh,
how she couldn’t be more wrong.
Graff1980 Feb 8
What is it like
to live on
the storm front
in the USA?

When clouds of discontent
come close and portend
agents of our
shared destruction;

When poverty’s blistering winds
blast the faces of
the poor women, men,
and starving children;

When the sounds of sorrow
swoosh in a swirling
even though,
the wealthy know
that those
tax cuts don’t grow
our system
but push it to the brink;

Till, the storm drops
and this farce we
call democracy
is washed away
in favor of
an uncertain future.
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