Watch them knock their nation black and blue
Focus on wording it right and you'll still be editing as history pages turn yellow
Take a break, gawk at the sky, swear you've never seen it so orange
Light the last cigarette about it, trigger in your mouth, turn it red
If the end falls off, don't stomp it out. Let it burn.
red If the end falls off, don't stomp it out. Let it burn. Turn

There's depth in the indifferent there-ness of guttural splinters, square, sharp, black,
and there. Call it terminal disillusionment to diagnose the masses feeling blue
But don't deny the gun pointed at the man who caught fire just so we could smell him burn
as if to threaten any other man, who dare be made of blinding yellow
Would you cut yourself open to make a point, or just to be seen, bloodied and red?
Maybe you've been distracted, or are just too short to notice the sky's orange

but I think it's all this gunk they've been shooting into the sky flooding reflecting orange
only revealing itself during sunset, when the light gets so big it burns out black
then spills all at once, far too fast to catch a glimpse of the body pouring red.
Morning is made dark by bodies blanketing babies who won't remember the sky ever being blue.
It covers the whole city with noise- static, malnourished skin that turns small and yellow.
They'll bomb even the temple if you let them, the one they're fighting for, they'll let it burn.

Today I straightened my hair. I got too close, let the skin burn
on my face until it scabbed to a patch turning brown and orange
How lucky I am to grieve that patch while the sun's still yellow
My eyes always labeled brown, never piercing purple pitch black
When I bruise, I watch the blood pool under my skin and turn blue.
I watch that much of one person's blood pour out and dry out brown, while mine is still red

So much blood, it looks like rust covering steel tanks and leaving the drivers hands red.
They pointed at sacred land screaming Let the people burn!
They pointed guns then wrists with three temple patches on suits of blue,
named the fight with colors to take that temple shaped like an orange,
the one that was built too far back to trace ancestry, graffitied on the wall in black:
The house of God, scrawled over a question. Is he not my father too? Written in yellow,

Asked before it got lost in the stucco walls as they gradually turned yellow,
We have known eachother for twenty thousand generations, why are your eyes still red
when I mention His name?- When it's between green and red and black.
I'd like to stop you from using my blood to make machine guns, but I don't have time to burn
or to become another sacrificial goat sent away to your colony in suits of orange
If I am only waiting until there is nothing left, I'd like to at least be the ocean. Turn my body blue.

The sun sprays yellow over everything, how could you ask for more? How can you let it burn?
You say you're fighting for a canvas you've never seen. A color dispute. Was it red or orange?
But you're painting over it, mixing until it turns black. Until it stabs you back, you beat me blue.