I. Red

America’s rage and

hatred

dispenses a fiery red

aura,

while the warm blood

of mine embraces the

hard, cold pavement.

A gory Pollock painting,

it splatters everywhere,

the rusty red exploding,

all because of the greeting

of a bullet,

and the wrath of an officer,

but did I resemble some monster,

or a threat?

II. White

The color of bags,

that give faceless cowards

a name.

The tone of one’s skin,

who at first

breath,

is given a different type of

privilege.

Yet are we so different?

III. Blue

Sorrow and sadness

fills each citizen’s face,

while the news spews

unrealistic and hateful ideas

hallucinating viewers.

Always

over the little things:

a knee,

or having a voice,

or the simplicity, yet

blissful nature that is

freedom.

But in America,

who is really free?