| Written: SEPT 13, 2003 |
Kneeing on the mother,
No more in the skins of the buck.
In a fine suit of the enemy,
My hearts burns half against me.
I share the same greed and exploitation,
Here in my head.
Hollow with thoughts it seems,
The treachery, the unread thoughts.
Trained to not be ourselves,
Searching, we can find only hatred.
For our loss, for our predicament
And for our now sorely brainwashed status.
Once savage and feared,
We now beg change or are left
To the dregs of society.
Like the furniture of a museum:
Graceful and antiques,
Used to learn of,
Used and kept around.
Kundun hidden or neglected,
Everything stripped that cannot be regained.
The educated savage I remain,
Fiery and independent, at times eagerly praying
To any who will take me to Heaven.
