empty-puddles

Whoever knew being happy was consequential? Beginning with the laws against us, The discrimination of our people. Random shootings, just for fun. The things they did and planned, It was not just the genocide of a race... They tear us out of our homes, Children screaming, dogs barking, The bitter smell of fear in the air as they tell us "Its ok, we're taking you somewhere far away from safe." The things they did and planned, It was not just the genocide of a race... Packed in hot, stuffy train cars, Choked by the air that fills our lungs, Filled with the stench of death and dying, Of sweat and tears, pain and embarassment. The

Speak, as if they would be your final words. Hate, because they won't help you anyway. Stumble and fall, and laugh at yourself, but don't call me the blame, the cause, the final count. Its all you; its all your fault.

I'm on top of this building... Not just a building, a skyscraper. It's taller than usual, and narrower, making it much more flexible in these high, warm winds. It doesn't have any extra fortification around it's edges, going straight from flat roof to side wall. The only other thing up here with me is the door that leads from the roof to the stairwell, which is closed. There aren't even any pigeons. I'm laying down at the edge of the building; I'm so close that my head hangs off the side into the open air. I can feel the entire structure swaying dangerously, rocking from side to side in the wind, possibly the result of poor construction. Th