Begging construction workers to stop for your healing
feels like asking these bare walls for answers
which I have written my own on in finger paint,
removed the long of obedience to glorify the color rebel
which is the same color as broken glass or
soot from fields we burned to fertilize someday's crop
which says something about potential hope and also
how willing we are to starve when all we've harvested is
the plant grown on the water of tears. I know
the land I come from is rugged and I don't care about
being perfect anymore. I need to say I am sorry
for wanting to be right instead of trying to be better,
a strange turn of fate. I believe we are always changing
like that’s gone now. Like how isolation. Like how gold