When you're this poor,
You'll write on toilet paper just to
Save your last ‘clean sheet' of paper;
I wrote a poem on the wall
In a girl's bathroom, somewhere
Lost in translation, people condemned
Me a racist. I'm for Indians,
Not against them!
Try explaining that to a mob
Of angry young Indian girls, wanting to
Slit my throat in a throng of
Confused, misinterpreted words.
I never copied it down anywhere,
Just left it on that wall,
My legacy.
Suge had been there, curly hair,
Dull blue eyes, Tulalip Indian.
I'll go home to peace,
Never return, I don't think I'm welcomed.
Some days I wanna fly with my
Eagle brethren, perhaps to let them know
That I still see them; still remember them,
Or maybe, to forget the odd girl
I have grown to be. Still, that
Mob of women, their views docile,
Close-minded, like everyone else.
So un-excepting of
My legacy.
February 2, 2004
Suge
*yeah, I heard that place burned down...I really should have written down that poem!