every morning
I rise and face
the firing squad
every morning
there is one
who holds his fire
his dilemma
is my system
of belief
they fire rounds
but I am seldom
in their circle
a quiet mind
is labeled 'sound'
and colored purple
my little boy
has not yet learned
to color within lines
his jumbled diction
has not yet learned
our contradiction
we speak of art
with flaming passion
then do work
void of compassion
and wonder why
reality is bleeding fiction.