Is there a struggle that comes from a lack thereof?

A guilt that comes from overcoming it

the fate inherent in the color of my skin

Can I, a person who has never left

Left the fore walls of my privileged life,

say that I harbor any relation

to the people that are just like myself

However, are they anything like me?

When the only thing we share is sympathy

Can I state I am a part of a cause,

when I am a direct cause of it

Do I bear any similarity to

To the boy who died for the pack of skittles

When my car has never been pulled over

I have a crimson stain on my hands

My hands which act so very caring

Caring to all until it affects me

My hands which often talk such big game

Of the civil rights escapades it finds

Have a deep crimson stain on my protest sign

The one I made the night before its use

The one I made out of this same very guilt

But is this a selfish argument all together

An arbitrary discussion to mask

Keep me blindfolded from what is hard to swallow

That I am nothing but an outsider

Looking in from a crystal-clear window

Wanting so desperately to be a part

Of something so desperately wanted out of

I can't contain the guilt, so I pretend

to know a struggle I only know from screens

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.