It’s not a big deal (but it is)

A whip cracked in the windows
of a house dressed in white.
Kong lies dead on the lawn,
gunpowder mixed fluids,
oozing into wavering soil,
that knows no legal boundaries.
War dogs in transit to the police
To route out masses,
who either throw molotovs
or stand at attention with their community.
The ones who wanted actual dreams
for their sons and daughters,
now see friendly neighbors
open the bloodied door,
long thought to be chained
in black iron in Hades,
was sleeping in the shade
of an apple tree.

My poem is a picture that I have painted concerning how some people have decided to take what Trump has said to heart. Many seem to think they have a free ticket to revert back to the old days and say anything they want without consequence. This is my expression towards that.




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