An American Poem

I’m proud to be an American?

Where at least I think I’m free.

I was born here and so were my parents, yet you insist an American doesn’t look like me.

Beside a colorless silhouette,

I’m still the one you neglect.

When you describe this country,

You fail to mention it’s wrongs,

You belt out the National Anthem,

But you secretly wish I wouldn’t sing along.

I did nothing but ask to be treated,

Like a decent human being,

But you’d rather see me dead,

Than to see equality.

Blood in my eyes, and blood in the streets,

When Woodrow wrote “This Land Is Your Land",

..I guess he wasn’t really talking about me.