My hands are up. Stitched to the heavens humanity worships in their darkest times. I can’t breath. I can’t inhale the tyranny on my skin but I can let out preconceptions of history until the colors on all our hands turn to one. My eyes are up. Focusing on the voices of tired, yet motivated beings. I can’t speak. I can’t express without tripping on the passions that tie the ends of my words. Until the echoes of marching eager souls collide with pavement. My thoughts are high. Filling clouds with ideas and raining the worries we questioned, the ones they won’t answer. I can’t see. Pictures that are painted and sounds that are played by the media are trying to keep my generation blind. Our hands are up, they are down, and they are everywhere. They are unrestricted from the shackles and nooses, free from the torture, so why are their hands clinching so tight and why can’t they breathe, still? Artist paint their work with details and colors and we as a society have obsessed over higher quality and picture so we can see this life with overly exposure, yet why are we tinting our eyes to see this pigment on us differently because the last time I blended all of our colors, I saw dark before the white, and days were still light.