what do I know about life,

as I am but a pathetic poet,

a passive observer and documenter of things.

What more can words be

than strange symbols upon a page,

than strange sounds we swallow down.

What impact will my depiction and description of the red, yellow, and green

of autumn leaves

bring to the world?

I do not know.

All I know is,

when the fallen cloaks of trees crunch beneath my feet,

it reminds me of my grandma, and how even though she could not stand

she played in the leaves with us.

All I know is,

I have a voice and a perspective 

that no one else does.

No one else tastes that happy sweet stickiness 

of the bottom of my father's coffee cup.

No one else hears the wails of my brother

when once again he is beaten up,

for the shade of his skin is the same colour as 

a rotten leaf, a mug of caffeine.

That words aren't just words until given meaning,

but words are the foundation for being.

What do I know about life,

as I am but a passenger, a passer-by,

yet my words protest every wrong, every lie,

like the crunch crunch of foliage under feet,

like the blood that bleeds red, though from a black skinned body, 

is the same shade as all the rest.

All I know is

words are how we can change for the best.

The End

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