1997 warrants a judgement, an open eye and skin that is fair.

The new child weeps and bears the weight of the air.

He, his own captor, crumbles beneath his own undying weight -

Newly enlisted into the war against his own fate.

Behind the veil of my grin, a worn soldier sits

Tattered and battered by his own two fists.

Our culture teaches not to recognize the dirt

By pleading that we smile 'till our cheeks hurt.

I am not who I am - at least to the crowd,

My true name is spoken from the lips of silence.

Beneath the skin, I am a wounded warrior, same as all.

Inflicted by my own identity defiance.