Justice

I have a spot at the back of the shelf,
for the simple crime of being myself.
And if it is true that this world is free,
then please tell me why it has forsaken me.
Is it the way I drag my feet when I walk,
or perhaps I slur my words when I talk?
Could it be the color of my skin,
maybe they don’t like the language I speak in?
But certainly this is no sin,
I cannot help the way I do something.
But yet I cry your same bitter tears,
And I share all of your common fears.
I definitely bleed that same red blood,
yet my independence still lies in the mud.
Now if you still say that we are free,
then just try to see as justice sees.
She wears a thick blindfold over her eyes,
cannot judge my differences, only your lies.
So now if you push me to the back of your vault,
just realize you’re the one at fault.
You just separated and set apart,
a human with a soul and beating heart,
not so different from that which you call your own.
Now someone is left to walk the world alone.
You were too busy looking for someone to blame,
you did not close your eyes and remember,
We are one in the same.

Kayleigh Cloutier

Injustice

What will injustice do to you?
It will tear apart all of your dreams,
and like rats it will gnaw at all your seams.
What does injustice look like?
It looks like a dark night without moon or stars,
a whole life viewed with eyes that peer through iron bars.
What does unjustness sound like?
Lightning crashing and thunder rolling on the horizon,
like millions of soldiers all marching in unison.
What does oppression taste like?
It tastes like corpse-flavored bread and soup,
as though your stomach had curled into a loop.
What does discrimination feel like?
It feels like rapid waters that you have to tread,
or a flood that goes way over your head.
What does hatred smell like?
It smells worse than seven million dead bodies,
more repulsive than burning flesh.
Why does injustice happen?
Now that is a good question.

Kayleigh Cloutier