America, Must We Always Speak

By Roberto Cintron III

Like burning yellow grain, scarring the feet of those without a towel? Like an army of hatred, broken windows and dark rubber full of holes against someone who didn’t even have any drive to drive away? Like the discouraging parent, why must we cut down imagination as the rolling oval fields become still triangles? Like the calm lumberjack, wood ripped with our violent fingertips as perfectly built scattered nests and wood coat the forest where sounds were always heard? Like a child who dislikes vegetables? A Cascade of green in his eyes going away and keeping it the same.

We have the face of the rabbit, eyes full of soul... But just like the rabbit, we eat our own kind. We are also picky eaters; gender, race, and sexuality is judged with no jury. We seem to enjoy ripping people, moving the hard shell into the lens so hot it burns fingertips with a loud sizzle just to judge them by.

It seems for every simple working man, a sign accusing them of being a demon stands. Everywhere across the land… Love, Compassion, and Conviction are banned. It doesn’t matter how hard you try to blend in, we are professional graveyard architects. And our gravestones will continue to expand.

The globe moves around as we stay the same. It seems that all Americans share the same brain. Just moving forward didn’t seem so hard. But we can’t escape our history, it’s full of endless scars.

Hot palms gather in a circle; we extend our hands and are met with dense air.

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