*This is a poetic piece of love instilled with the laces of anger.
Wrought iron fences have encompassed me
In a place I've never seen before.
The sky lacks luster, grey, dull, lifeless like a body before the burial.
No sun, no stars, no moon, no blue, no nothing but grey.
Too dark, too dank, too deep.
I'm entombed here, a place where I
Am not allowed to do my own thing.
I have to follow the lessons presented by others.
I have to walk the fine line an Indian is expected to walk.
I have to laugh at the same things everyone else laughs at.
I gotta sit here and take everyone's sh!t because
They took everyone's sh!t and it has been passed down to me.
These fences cage me in on
A patch of brown dead earth.
Normally, I can see life in everything,
All things living or breathing or not.
But here in this dirt patch, I could see nothing.
There was nothing but desolation.
I was surrounded in a foreign land of desolation,
I'd never been here before.
There were no trees, no grass, no botanic greenery.
There was only gloom.
Gloom, it sounds like a plant destined to die young;
Maybe a person destined to die young.
No winds blow through here,
Just dead air.
There is nothing to sway.
There seems to be no temperature,
Maybe only a humid seclusion.
The solitude of this land makes me yearn for them
Purple mountain majesties.
In a place where freedom is encouraged,
I sure seem always to be told to shut up
And agree with what everyone else thinks.
And they are wrong,
And I am wrong,
And we're all wrong,
And isn't that freedom anyway?