The pictures on the wall are crooked. The frames
are straight but the pictures are falling. Falling like
they fell on that day in November when I watched
the country vote away their will like I see every
November. I saw all the pretty hopes and dreams
and hates and pains and frustrations and desires and
passions and all the faith of my generation tied up
in a nice little box of lies and we smile and bow and scrape
and thank them and pay them to steal all of these from us.
And I will not say, "I'm sorry," even if I was the one
who killed the dream. Your dream. It mustn't have been
worth much if it died so easily, accidentally on purpose.
And I will laugh at what I find funny and not curb the words
that may or may not slip off of my tongue and offend someone,
someone who is only out to be offended anyway.
This may come as a surprise, but I'm am
the white skinned daughter of the white skinned man
and I am not ASHAMED of that. I am not ASHAMED
of being the daughter of the fields of Europe