A book—Book of Life you call it?
What can your Book tell of the supposed life I have chosen?
Can it acquit me of my unwilling contribution to the institution
that has enslaved my mind, soul, and spirit?
An intrusion is what it really is.
A lame excuse to justify the abuse accompanied by tolls, toils, and the utter deterrence
of humanity I have faced.
Can your Book fill every nook and cranny of my so-called dim witted mind?
Will it satisfy my crimson-stained mind?
The lines—lines of this Book.
Do they have a hook—a catch?
Do they offer a net to gather up the pain left—
Over the false hope of equality, I am.
I can’t stand the glossed over perversions of man.
They rejoice that a new day, a new era shall soon arise.
However, the unending pain still lies.
Lies are what they tell me.
Lies become the truth.
Lies that have made my mind become a destitute mold for their vile souls.
How can this Book tell me of forgiveness?
How can I be the one expected to progress?
I am the one who lies empty and broken.
I deserve to feel as if I am unspoken for.
Alas, this is not the case
For I make my own choices and define my race.