Movement runs fluid through our blood.
It pounds on our hearts, looking for a way.
Voting happens with our feet.
With our feet and pounding fists raised high,
Next to peace signs and middle fingers,
shaking towards the sky.
Behind the glass masks are two blinking blue eyes.
Systematically eliminating all dirt from their mind.
Piles of dirt gather at their feet, unwilling to budge.
Icing the filthy pavement with a fresh layer of grime.
These curbs to shallow to house us,
Our skin too clean next to needles and dying rats.
Some believe in nothing but the words composed by the TV man.
Some of us blend with the asphalt.
Black and tarnished, slowly slithering beyond the cop's watchful eye.
Hollow puppet eyes start past their glass covering,
Through us, trying to sort us while only thickening the gap,
between us and them.
They stand in lines, puppets for money.
While we stand,
Volunteers, fighting for freedom.