You cannot shake hands with a clenched .
We could make love, peace, or war but instead we choose this.
This provocative yet primitive gorilla warfare.
And never was there a time where a shot fired 'missed'.

I was hit. You were hit. God was hit,
He watched his creations dilapidated
And it made his very soul hurt to see this.
The blood on the leaves, and moans in the breeze are just the begining.
For now, is there no difference between the rustic Crimson gates of heaven, or the fiery abyss?

We were molded from the same mud,
We've been bleeding out the same blood,
The color of my skin, the same as the color of water.
Understand that the substance with no pigmentation is love.

Look at me and you should see yourself,
A clump of poorly molded clay but beautiful non the less.
Touch my skin and see its rough around the edges.
But to shoot me down with words like knives,
You leave scars that don't heal on the inside of my chest.

My soul is weeping. They gnash their teeth.
And while you fail to see me for me, the man upstairs is shaking his head.
How. Sad.

You kill him for his color, and you hate her for existing.
They justify their action by thinking there should be equal sinning.
And here I am, the quiet one. Mulatto, what am I?
My soul is weeping still, because we are all guilty.

I am guilty of misjudging the world. Expecting some gray to spawn amidst the white and black.
I am convicted of being a bystander, in fact,
I am sentenced to life in a prison where the inmates are brothers yet they dispize each other.
And they ask me what color I am? They do not see what I can bring, but only what I lack.

And up stairs I hear footsteps, and next door I hear laughter.
I see you, standing their, trying to choose a side to fight for.
And to you, all I can do I shake my head and hope you choose wisely.
And to those who question my being, "I am just the color of water".