Folk to the punk.

To the punk, to the folk, to our rights as citizens.

History is funny.

If I'm gay, if I'm an atheist, if I'm just a normal person seeking a normal life.

No.

American Jihad.

What's you name? Why are you here? Why do you take that picture?
You can't walk here. You can't talk here. You can't travel here.

Show me your ID.

No funny ending.

IV

I'm tripping down memory lane:

with this

I was approximately zero (well, zygote to be exact) at that time.

But, later...

I've set foot in that building exactly once. It was a crappy disco then but it ended up being a harbinger.

Looking back now, I see there is a flood of the past which is always waiting to crash into the back of my mind.

I'm stuck

I've groan up fighting the status quo.

Now I suckle that teat.

What am I worth?

How can I be happy knowing who I am?

Ordinary, at best.

This land

No longer do you care.
You exist for comfort.
Ideals are gone now.
No more discourse.

This land is made for you and me.