From conception,

we spend the next nine months

wrapped in a cocoon

of our mother's protection.


Our cells

come together to form

eyes that have yet to see,

hearts that have yet to beat,

lungs that have yet to breathe.



our cells form

all that is you,

all that is me,

all that is we.


From the minute

we leave the womb,

we are thrown

into a courtroom

called life.

Where you are put on trial

by any and every one.


In this courtroom,

justice is not served,

punishment is

cruel and unusual,

and those who believe

in tolerance

are just delusional.


In this courtroom,


serves as a law degree,


serves as a law degree,

and hatred

serves a justification

for injustice.


In this courtroom,

the jury is made up of your peers.

But they aren't your friends.

They're your fears.

They are

the monsters that

lurk on top of the bed,

the best friends that

stab you in the back and turn the knife,

and the demons that torment you for life.


In this courtroom,

the prosecution is ruthless.

And demands that you repent.

Because in this courtroom

you're guilty

until proven innocent.


You're guilty.

Guilty of being too much.

Guilty of not being enough.

Guilty of being too fake,

too real,

too weak.

Guilty of being too tough.

Guilty of being too easy to hate,

Guilty of not being afraid show how you feel.

Guilty of being too normal or too freak.

Guilty of being too difficult to love.

Guilty of being too hard to measure.

Guilty of being too much “trash”

and not enough “treasure”.

Guilty for daring to be your own

in a world of clones.


There'll come a day

when the pain, people, and opinions fade away.

There'll come a day

when the judgement will end

and the gavel in His mighty hand will descend.

And the trial that began when you were born

will finally adjourn.

You'll ascend the stairway to heaven

and reunite with the dogs that left you all alone.

Or you'll ride the highway to hell

and Lucy will welcome you home.


There'll come a day

when their labels won't stick

and their bullets don't hit.

There'll come a day

when you settle into a box made for you.

A box where you'll rest

forever—with closed eyes and arms across your chest.

You'll have the company

of earthworms and dirt walls.

And at last, you will be free.

Free to just be.

This poem is about: 
My country
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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