I wonder why the great flag waves in the wind— 

In its historical beauty of mountain high majesties  

Burns the iron grid of its Earth’s soil 

Following the nation’s curve based on the broken backs of its citizens  

The notion that We, the People, may not see through the pupils 

Of Them, the Power  

 

How does the great flag wave higher than any other 

Carrying alongside its barbiturate seams  

Meant to sew the eyelids of generations wielding the torch 

Of change and hope  

Don’t hide your children behind the stars and colors 

Of perseverance and justice 

Wrap them in the conception that we may shed the 

Red, red, red— 

White and blue 

When the bodies drop in school hallways and an AR-15 

Takes their place at their high school graduations 

 

When will the great flag learn to love its heartbeat? 

The one that carries its crying baby on its back 

Sending its wishes upon salvation and survival 

As the hyenas' nip, clawing at its heels 

Weaponized, teeth bared towards the fearful 

The backbone of this country—the free 

Running towards freedom where freedom is foreign to foreign flesh 

Where “alien” is no longer a word to conspiracy theorists 

They are illegal dreamers who are illegal on their own land 

When will the flag live for its lifeline 

Instead only those who are born from the whitewashed womb 

 

When can I tell my mother that she is allowed to speak foreign tongue  

Instead of the written song of the eagle, who picks at its feathers until the blood runs dry 

 

How can you wear the badge if you’ll just pull the trigger 

Does the bullet run faster if they’re dead or alive 

Or have you already picked out mahogany wood for their caskets 

Do their bodies drop if their skin is darker than the stripes of the flag 

You hang them upon 

 

Do they sing the Anthem to prove they know the lyrics 

Or do you assume they already carry the wrong tune  

How much higher can I show you my hands before they reach Heaven 

And then come together in prayer 

 

I don’t know how to feel when culture meets death 

When the Reaper doesn’t speak my family’s language  

He only speaks in apple pies and crude oil  

Bullet shells and deportation tickets  

And the fruit of America  

When the soil turns sour 

 

I don’t know how to feel  

When my country has turned its back on me  

And when the lack of scrutiny 

For citizens blood lays imbedded in your finger tips 

You’ll realize your finger prints stay impressed on my coffin