This nation's Forefathers
Kept the stars for themselves
And gave my ancestors
Seven red stripes.
The six white lines
Are six lines of cocaine
Placed in front of me.
My head is bowed low
And I am forced to snort.
Or are these six lines the
Straps of the straitjacket
That restrict my physical
And mental movements?
The mind games begin.
The blueness is cool
Over my head.
My white fingernails
Contain flecks of redness.
The blue water is tinted red.
I realize the crimson
Liquid trickles from
My neck, bleeding from
The thirteen wounds
Slashed upon my throat.
I reach for the stars,
And they, too, become
Red in my grasp.
By A. Jarrell Hayes
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