Sonnet about legalization in Texas

This Is Not Art

This is not art. You must read it as screed. Place where my absurd, turmoiled dreams do take. With pen, to you I now entrust this deed. Mad writings, to explain this cause, I make.

In Twenty Sixteen, the whole world will change. My children will consider this era and I, not they, will think it very strange, when half the states, balance of hemisphere have wrinkled brows, and passed some laws to make as legal, flowers.

Obama, words I say to you: the herb must be made legal! Earn back your prize and show some balls. Think to your youth in Hawaii. Think to dramatic shift in public view. The heritage that you would leave behind. Action, you as executive can take. Remembered as the first black president. As counter, your acts to Nixon’s dark arts, against a race, worked with malevolence. Drug war a failure, in your heart of hearts.

Two hundred ninety-five days at last count. How long that she has gone without a seize! Each day is a deposit in account, life of a girl, who from state, had to flee. State would wish to remain unnamed (Texas). Needs medicine that’s taken from this flower. The politicians all give same salute: to sky, in worship, longest finger up.

My God, in my hand, I now hold a stone. Must drop it before I would break my vow.

Our Texas gov, and all those other men in legislative play they will convene in January Twenty Seventeen. The foregone billions that the state pissed off. Their tune will change with wind, look to the vane.

I open veins, and now combine my blood with ink upon this page. I would convey: injustice has touched me personally. I’m sorry I was not moved by your cause but by this one, these words that I must say.