I deal drugs. I'm less than you. I'm illegal. I'm not allowed to live in a nice home. I shouldn't be in the United States. There is a border holding my people back. Water dripping off our backs, soaking wet, Dieing of thirst, Dieing of hunger. I'm a color that is neither white or black. I am tan. I am Mexican. I'm human. My colors are green, white, and red. I've searched and dreamed for freedom. Freedom for my sisters, my brothers, my aunts, and my uncles. But no! There is no justice in the land of the free. The land of god. Because when I got there I was considered a alien. A drug dealer. Illegal. But I'm human just like you.
Yes you are Celia and much better at it then those you speak of. Phil
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful and meaningful... tells a lot about how people judge by a glance, a glimpse, ... my kingdom for a soul? or my kingdom for a new face? * *