I was innocent, until you outlawed my existence. I was free of charges, until you put me up for sale.
I was suddenly unwelcome, in your so called home, because I stopped hanging out in your fields.
I had a dream so real, it woke you up, on the wrong side of the bed…
You ran so far ahead, of the truth, before I found my feet. You still had time to look behind and watch me stumble in amusement.
You limited my choices, because I refused to pick, when you asked.
You tell me my face is ugly, and give me yours as a mask.
I worked hard, for a while, amassing a woodpile, only to later burn it. In attempts to draw attention, to a fire you started. You use that same flame to torch holes in my history, later to fill them in with ego fuelled lies.
I was a blank canvas, until you coloured me black. You now refuse to look at your own painting.
The gloomy heirloom built on generations of pain; decorated in every shade of genocide.
Whether you choose to accept credit for the disaster master piece inspired by hate,fear, and fate;
or acknowledge that, you, neither held a whip nor hold the blame
Without any change in the patterns our colours make, you will gain from these moral stains all the same.
