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If I could write a letter to the world I’d ask.
What about me?
In ten years I’ll be 22. What will the world look like then?
The worlds past generations have left us.
The world where leaders aren’t leaders and peace isn’t peace and answers aren’t
Answers and it’s all falling down and I’m tired.
Where the clear blue sky will only be a distant memory and the west will be little more Than scorched land.
Will there still be injustice?
Prophet of doom, pleased to meet you.
It doesn’t affect us.
I’ve heard that more than enough.
But that doesn’t mean you stop fighting.
And maybe it’ll never be enough.
We are so much better than this
We were great.
Are we? Were we?
Is great coming and claiming and stealing and colonizing and reinventing and lying then finding and taking and enslaving and reinventing and attempting and upheaving and
Incarcerating and reinventing and deporting and killing and reinventing and reinventing
And reinventing.
And reinventing.
And burying
And denying
And justifying for your own comfort.
We don’t change by forgetting.
We change by remembering.
We don’t change by trying.
We change by doing.
This is us.
This has always been us.
In ten years I’ll be 22 will it still be the same? Will it?
Will it be screams and shouts and flags from lost causes and glass shattering and anarchy and chaos and then we are raised fists and open palms and singing and
hoping we shall overcome and guns pointed and we have to kneel?
Someday...
Is that the world you want to leave to me?
to them?
to us?

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