I live in the land
Of the inbetweeners.
We are what
The French would call,
Bourgeoisie.
What the ghetto calls,
Bougie.
What the successful calls,
Day dreamers,
And what we call,
The future leaders.
I live in
The land of rebels.
The people who fought against their oppressors
Because they know the truth behind
Social Darwinism;
And the fact of the matter is
That no race
Is a superior race
Because "race"
Is a manmade idea
To justify the injust
Ideas of slavery.
The rebels who ran out of chains
Because they weren't
Supposed to be chained down.
The rebels who walked midnight railroads
To escape the clutches
Of the white man's burden.
The rebels who refused to stand
In one spot
When there were plenty of seats available.
The rebels who refused
to bite their tongues and
The rebels who refused to be spoken over
Because they had
A lot of important stuff to say.
The rebels who dreamt outrageous dreams,
So that the complexion
Of your pigment
Was never a deciding factor
In your life.
The rebels who refused
to follow unlawful laws
Because they were
Law abiding citizens
Only when laws were just.
The rebels who challenged what was superiority,
The rebels who changed the course of history forever.
I live in
The land of the outsiders
Who conform the
Preconceived ideas
To fit them
We roll small blunts
of white paper
Filled with the words
of novels and poetry
And blow through those books
Inhaling every letter
And letting it cling to our lungs
Flowing the grammar
Throughout our bodies.
We stand spittin
Absolute value bars
Rapping elongated equations
Of X equals
Y +/- root Z
Divided by root A
Times the quantity of
B - C.
We stick up
Banks filled with
Material and instruction.
Stealing all the information we can take
And try peicing it together
So that more than words
We have knowledge.
We *******
Our brains,
Pleasing its sapiosexual
******* with
Grammar and arithmetic.
I live in the land
Of the inbetweeners.
The people making history
In their everyday lives.
The revolutionaries
Who fight for even
The smallest of issues.
The individuals who stand out
Amongst a crowd of people
That look just like them.
The inbetweeners,
They who refuse
To subjugate themselves
To society,
But will subjugate society
To themselves.

Where is the soldier
who floundered in his backyard?

Amidst the windswept sawgrass,
(Which, by the way,
Cut so hard against his skin)
He felt the sensitivity of his own lost soul,
So on the surface,
that it was hurt by its own feeling.

He, who dipped and swayed,
And felt angry, perverted, and *****,
lonely, now,
He lets his mind wander,
When he's never done that before.

Now he is away,
Careening through space, time,
and *****.

Peicing together destruction,
and how much humanity and evil,
Well up from us
as a reaction to death,
How so frail we are,
How ***** releases a man.

Where the horizon finally finds itself, he has been lifted,
Too heaven,
Among God and Gods and monkeys
and clouds.

Too where gunsmoke rises eternally,
With the heartbeat of man,
A slow, hollow drumming,
emptiest,
The emptiest.

In the brotherhood of the melting sunset,
Where molten horizon simmers overtop the edges of the pines,
And the whole world is finally pure chaos,
sadness and beauty.

He reaches the bottom of his dreams,
and still wandering,
Goes back into the house,
To ******* so much and hard that it hurts,
To sleep.