Time is Milk, and Milk is Precious

I wonder if America sees me coming? No, not the last great hero who will liberate the children of shackled disillusion; not that at all. More like an exact replica of who they want me to be. I feel as if so many different words are piercing my head, all with the intent on clearing out space for a new ideology. The more I study your history, dear America, the more I learn that your babies have never been satisfied with your milk. Has there ever been a generation who hasn't sworn off your virtues? Who hasn't cried for the flag of freedom, all while operating in the very system they march against? It's a shame, America, that your children do not give you a chance to speak for yourself. 

How about a word from our country, people? 

Let's give her a moment. 

Moment is here. 

Moment is past. 

She can't speak for herself because of the white fists of democracy shoved down her throat. It's dark in here, children. It's dark because we refuse to shine any light worth lighting. We cling to the phrases that are passed down to us from other rebels who aren't sure why they rebelled, either. Think back, guerrillas; was it America who disgusted you, or the crowds who inspired you? I'm not sure what your answer will be, but I hope it will be one of reason. 

Reason is the waste product of our society. Reason and time. Both are precious and both are running out. Justice is a facade. Freedom is easily manipulated. Reason and time remain pure. You can't molest reason and you can't influence time. They are both the centerpiece and the measuring rod of our collective foot holds. And we need both of them. Without reason, the "cause" ceases to be. Without time, well, who has time to figure that out?

Can we all agree on one thing? What we consider to be so vile is the very reason we must reach harder than ever before. America isn't the problem and she never has been. America is what her brat babies make her. America's flavor is only as good as her chefs. If you want to curse her shortcomings, aim that gun at the rightful targets; her masters.

In short, blame whitey.