hear these wayward words that shatter bated breath,
that eat me alive and leave me black.
singed alive by this heat, this hatred that is poured across my tongue in liquid fire.
i am burning in [hell] heaven.
and i cannot feel anything.
( is this how it feels? )
how it feels to be a martyr for words, a martyr to those who speak when no one is listening, or when no one cares to.
say it to my face, spit it at my sickled toes.
leave your hastily scribbled slanders over my dead body, that's okay. [it's alright.]
you're just branding yourself.
look at me.
what am i to you?
my pallid face is but a baby's breath on jack frost's tongue, just a drop in an ocean of alabaster, cocoa, lemon, and scarlet skin.
my ink-drenched fingers meet burgundy liquid and pool into mute marble hearts.
funny thing, that marble.
( even blood cannot teach it how to feel. )
how will you be different today?
how will you view your generation and understand why.
why we even have to ask why.
and it is then when our eyes wane like moons in the wake of something more than questions. something more than existence.
something more than us.
( can you handle that ?)
it's a funny thing: living.
we all live [to die].
believe in me.
we will live through death.
live through the speech we deigned to speak this very day.
the cries of injustice, of hunger, of oppression will be silenced.
today is the day.
believe in me.
believe in these words.
this is our manifesto, our free will pouring in torrents of enlightened rain.
we the people,
i the human being,
live through speech.
because without this freedom, this liberty i clutch to with each remnant of my soul,
i only live [to die].