I was sentenced to die before I even had a chance to live.
I became sullen, and angry, and anxious.
There I was in my mother's womb and the sentence was read aloud only to me.
I fought my way out and around.
The system didn't have a clue what to do with me.
I, in turn had a strategy-I had stitched myself up, and I would rename myself subversive.
I gathered as much of my tattered skin that I found strewn here and there, and I readhered to myself especially the tender one for my hands.
I asked my mother not to cry assuring her that I would be back..to show her my newness of spirit.
I entered silently into all the offices of the lawmakers,and I scribbled senselessly with my ancient plume on their hidden agendas-so as to aggravate their bills.
I laughed with so much joy to watch them wonder who the hell messed with their work.
Idiots.
Imbecil low lifes.
I can never be put to death-not ever by injustice!
Never will my heart be placated from doing what I must for all the others without voice.
I am back from the dead.
I am new again stitched up better than before.
You have lethal injections of shame and historical pain,but they don't kill me.
I have antidotes for the social molestors, for the social whippers, for the builders of the projects...the projects that make us turn onto ourselves to make us killers that live only to kill.
I can fly with torn looking skin.
I leap higher as to never be seen.
There is no such thing to me as I can't.
I brought back the formula for success from the Sacred MIcTlAn the Holy place of the dead...the dead.
I am made new after a momentary death.
I wear a breast sheild of obsidian mined in the city.
My hair is entertwined with velocity meters, and my braids identify and correct the faults constantly.
I am vested to be fair,and to tell stories to the frail and meek.
I will not lie and if they shall sentence me to die yet again I will return with an even greater defense.
An ancient defense that moves upon the darkened sky called night.
Diana Joe
writes for rights



