Why my poems are black and grey


Take a glimpse at this painting I named my life,

Daubs of memories are splattered far and wide,

They show a picture of my reasons why,

 

So with words I paint,

With my weapon slash brush in my hand,

My mighty and trusty pen,

 

I’ll paint until my hands crinkle and bend,

I will paint until someone stands up in our broken land,

Until the cycle of violence ends,

 

Until the broken can be helped to mend,

Until the silenced no longer startle at the slight of hand,

Until the cowardly are disgraced and shamed,

 

I paint in black and shades of gray,

And pack the vivid crisp colors away,

So all will know my country is not okay

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