When I was 22

The ashes, ashes all fell down

And they came at me armed to the teeth

Like Shiva, ready to destroy me

And make me a martyr.

I didn't want to become a martyr

And I didn't want to burn and

I didn't want to lie in the hospital for them.

When I was 22

I bled for the sin of being a man who was different. . .

Only my blood didn't wash them clean and it made them mad.

So they kicked me on my path to see Joan

And Martin and Galileo. . . or maybe

They kicked me to make that path.

When I was not even 23

My mother and father cried for my bruised body.

My mother and father cried for my dying body.

My mother and father cried because they might have to kill me.

I laid in my mind and no one could reach me.

When I was 22

There came a silence that outdid them all.

I had burned for them and bled for them till there

Was nothing left to do but die.

I won nothing and lost my life.

Not even 23 and my dead body

Was on the news.

My killers, on the TV.

And the leaders said it was isolated

And I couldn't agree more.

So isolated, no one heard me screaming.

When I was 22

I died.

And somewhere in South Carolina,

A boy cried.