History

I feel the intensity of the pressure crushing me
In this ocean of a world, I remain confused
Am I the gushing waves or the solid rocks?
However the perspective, I am crushed
Left wishing I were the sand, inconsequential
Indifferent observer in the war of futility

As the tide subsides
I wait impatiently for the wind of fortune
To carry the grains of my persona
With the unfulfilled aspirations of my father’s mother
I pray for the salty waters of perspiration
To soak in my negative-ism and negative-ity

I see a thousand different ways I could have chosen to go down
Ignorance, Poverty, Vainglory
I choose the bullet of idealism
That should the world not hear my scream, they’d feel the thud
Of aspirations ignored, of dreams deferred, of dead passion
Ideological death that will resurrect into curiosity for those to come

Let the scarlet pigmentation soak into the soils
Let it be impossible to wash it away in wishful thought
Let it seep into the essence that was humanity
Let it be the cause of delirium
Let it ring
Hollow

In the morning
Let them whisper in murmuring tremors
Of the lies written in historical epithets
Let them confess for deprivation of an identity
Of a rich heritage that would shame their lack of culture
Let them name me after my forefathers and not theirs

For I am of them that history corrupted their story