10 June 1998 I wish I was a tree in a rainstorm. Standing tall and firm and beautiful. The rain would give me life and was away my faults and my guilt and my sins, drown out my past. But no matter what I do, where I go, who I become; It's always right there behind me. I may be poor, but I still have my pride and dignity. I may be ufo now, but I have know what it feels like to look inside from the outside, through that hazy fog covered window we call race, religion, and sex. I cannot hold hands with another language, culture, age; or touch another colored rag. I work hard as the next man, and like he, know not why I work so hard. Trapped in the borders of a government collapsing under the pressure of a chaotic public. A government that spews out propaganda in a vain attempt to raise a dying public's spirits. So we play, we act, we 'pledge allegience' only because we cannot stomach what we're told. Nobody tells the truth anymore, that is the only way to survive. I join the great masses as they drag their souls behind them as a black man from a pick-up truck. Feelings sumpting as primitive as joy, love, hope are rarely found. Search for it anywhere; maybe it's at the bottom of a bottle; maybe it's in sumpting shiney and new; maybe it's in a pretty lady. Then you wake up in a steel cage with twenty other men with beards and missing teeth and tatoos that say Mitch and Angel and I luv mum. And you say Where is my pride and dignity now? Maybe it's printed on the back page of a brochure; maybe it's belted out in song; maybe it's sewn on a flag.Birth sign: Not entered
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