Generation of Uproar
We’re the generation of uproar.
The kids that were learning how to apply war paint
before they had the chance to graduate high school.
Our women are taking back control of their bodies
because we’re tired of pretending you ever had a right to them.
We’re learning how to use our voice
and we’re speaking up for all of those you silenced
six feet underground.
You raised us not to bite our tongue
but threatened to put soap in our mouth when you
didn’t like what we had to say.
You were desperate to dumb us down,
scared we’d know what the text books are preaching
isn’t something we should be proud of.
But then you put social media at our fingertips,
and were angry when we learned how to use it
against you.
Now we’re sending flowers to the families of
people we haven’t met and because of you
never will.
And you’re trying to erase their names but we
have a list in the back of our mind and we’re
not going to let you forget.
We’re sick of watching the blood of kids our
own age get washed away.
You told us to respect our elders,
to keep quiet when they openly mock
those that look and think different
than us.
But now we’re tired of our palms stretched wide
and seeing the red that isn’t really there.
Because when we’re playing the part of
innocent bystander, we’re watching them
walk off to an early grave.
You sat us in class rooms,
told us to be quiet and listen to the lecture.
Trained us to be docile as you only taught
us half of the truth.
Didn’t like it when we asked about the other half.
But aren’t you the ones that taught us fractions?
So save all your prayers for our lost souls.
We don’t want a God that will condemn us for acts of kindness.
We’re the generation of poets and story tellers.
We’re inventing our own God.
One that recognizes our battle cries,
who opens their hands and teaches us the art
of palm reading, to remind us what we’re
fighting for.
We’re the generation that will write our history in blood
so you can’t ever say we didn’t die for what we believed in.