Dear America. 

I don't think you ever loved me, no, 
i lost that illusion a long time ago, 
maybe the people inside you cared a little, 
but you? I don't think so, 

Dear America. 

These countries stuck inside of me 
they're a part of me, i don't think you can see 
that i cannot give one up for you, cannot fight for you
against people who have my blood in their veins, 
this language on their tongue, 
my homeland's dirt on their boots, 
a mother's fear on their gun, 

Dear America. 

Please try to be patient with me, 
I know that you can't see a whole countries history 
written in my eyes, but next time just 
realize before you meddle that it might be justified 
later when they call death to your name, 
it's not because everyone in that country is one 
and the same as their government, no, 
it is because they might have been willing to forgive, 

It was the most 
beautiful shade of 
blue,  

the flag that 
was imprinted on her skin, 
right next to her eyes 
that shone brown. 

And then the 
king that had thrown 
a revolution of hate 
decided that he didn't like the fact
that she wore it so beautifully. 

This is the story of 
a people's rebellion. 
Rebellion. 

Once upon a time,

the king went through the kingdom
and ripped it off people, 
one by one, 
when he decided that they didn't fit
with what he thought was right. 

He looked at the people 
whose flags where still slowly
being drawn on, 
who had chosen it out of love 
or come here out of desperation 
and decided that the way that they 
clashed a little with the other colors
against their skin was 
an abomination and he tore 
the newly growing things off. 

He looked at the people

Art is courage. 

Art is nights tearing at your hair 
because it doesn't sound right 
it doesn't look right. 

Art is stained hands and 
stained clothes and paper stained 
with tears. 

Art is pulling out pieces of 
your heart and dashing them out 
across paper, 
hoping for a good result. 

Art is bleeding fingers 
from practicing for hours, 
is bleary eyes and worn out 
throats. 

Art is pushing until
something breaks, 
until you either give up 
or keep going until your body
bends to the shape you want it to. 

Art is daring to speak the truth, 
is getting locked up because 
people weren't ready for the truth yet, 

Art is challenging a dictator with 
nothing but a microphone, 
a paper and a pen, 
and yet making them look so fragile, 
so afraid. 

Art is forbidden words splashed

Kindergarten sounded like 
small voices singing
together on the bus, 
a brunette next to a blonde. 

First grade tasted like 
ghorme sabzi that my mom makes, 
and the bitterness in my mouth
after the other kids made fun of my 
foreign food. 

Second grade looked like 
cards in a calendar, 
flipping a different one each day, 
the look of polyester on the chalkboard.

Third grade smelled like 
Elmers glue and old magazines, 
the shick shick of the scissors as 
they cut through the shapes. 

Fourth grade felt like 
the rush of adrenaline you get 
when the teacher starts the timer on 
your times tables, racing through
so you could get to the next number. 

Fifth grade was a blur 
of memories and cloudy days, 
fight between friends 
and arguments, 

Sixth grade tasted like 
stale airplane air and 

We were stargazing the other night
when we saw something that wasn't right 
against the starry, starry, lights. 

A train of sixty satellites were 
drifting in the sky that night and 
my father and my cousins complained, 
said it would ruin 

the night sky. 

A lot of people are saying that, 
that this will ruin the night sky. 

And I looked up, 
and I thought....

how beautiful it is to know 
that we are out there, 
that we can go, 
out to the stars and maybe beyond, 
a little movement among the stars, 

and if I look up one day 
and see that the night sky is alive 
I don't think I'll be suprised, 
I'll look up at the stars and smile 
and know that humans are out there. 

Chunks of metal among burning fire, 
crude constructions of wires and lights, 
satellites that shimmer and twirl, 

omnes nos machinis. 
we are all machines. 

whether we want to admit it or not, 
we are all machinges, 
grinding away day to day, 
cogs spinning, 
gears whirring, 
keeping us breathing, 
breathing, 
breathing. 

we are all machines. 

we try and we try to 
keep ourselves upright, 
for as long as we can, 
but even machines fail, 
our hearts skip a beat, 
and we beat a hasty retreat, 
trying to recode the instructions of our genes, 

we are all machines. 

machines break and they fall,
and they work and they crawl, 
they keep trying to fly 
save themselves from the fall, 
building others like themselves 
and looking among the stars 
for other gears and cogs like us, 

we are all machines. 

we bleed motor oil 
and harsh salty tears, 
when out skin breaks, 
our back breaks, 

Climate change. 

We all know it, 
we know that it must be stopped, 
and we're trying, we really are,
but let me give you a different persepective, 
a kind of 'yours truly' from poor people 
and people of color. 

we care about climate change, 
we all live on this Earth after all, 

but it's easier for you to care in your
suburban houses, 
being able to afford solar panels,
and those reusable straws, 

meanwhile, 
people are living in the neighbourhoods 
you abandoned, 
'white flight',

and instead of telling her son to 
compost and recycle, 
she's telling her son not to wear a hoodie outside
at night because 
she wants him to survive, 

because instead of working on making
government offices more sustainable, 
she's focusing on the dread she fells in her stomach
when she sees police lights, 

So you scream that you're proud
of your pale skin 
and there's no reason that you 
shouldn't be. 

But remember that you were allowed
to be proud from 
the moment you saw the light 
of the afternoon sun, 

your spine is stacked straight
because centuries of people 
told you that you were superior, 
whether or not you believed them. 

And you did not ask for this, 
I see your slouch when we 
talk of what your ancestors have done, 
guilt like bricks on your back, 
for something you did not do, 
you had no choice in, 

and you may complain 
of anscestors' guilt, 
but at least you do not feel
an ancestor's pain.

Our backs were broken
until crooked and our eyes
forced to the ground, 
the moment your people saw us 
in the afternoon sun.

Our spines are stacked crooked
because people tell us we are not good enough, 

History is burning around us, 
history is burning around us, 
the shattered stained glass shards
raining down around us. 

History is being bombed around us, 
crumbling architecture, gods
that surround us blowing up, 
ancient gods blown up with modern weapons,

History is being erased around us, 
I can see the little eraser crumbs scattered 
across an entire people's story 
wiped blank, like they were never there.

What is going to be left over for those who inherit, 
smoking ruins of robots and computers
that we used to destroy ourselves?

Will they know about their ancestors, 
will they know how they fought, 
how they lived, 
how they loved, 
or will they look at the remains of the Earth and decide
they are ashamed of anyting that came before them? 

If aliens come in the future, 
will we be left to greet them? 

Wishes are for fairy tales,
Wishes are for dreams,
Wishes are for pretty things
In between what we think.
Wishes are for people in love
On sunless summer nights,
Wishes are for three-leafed clovers
And comets streaking high.
Wishes are for burning stars
So that they can’t sleep,
Wishes are coins in a fountain
While we silently weep,
Wishes are for sleepless people
Who stare into the void,
Wishes are for troublemakers
Who just got tattooed.
Wishes are for lonely people
With tears in their eyes,
Wishes are for empty people,
Trying not to die,
Wishes are the delicate things
Between the stars and the sky,
Wishes are for all the people who
Want to feel alive.