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If I were to sketch my America 
If I tried, I see a woman with blood red eyes.
 
Red like blood that once pumped in the veins 
Of the beaten and whipped, the sold and the slain.
 
Her hair, once grass green, has started to fade
And since has become a more industrial shade
 
She's covered in scars from the battle within 
But each cut, a memory of where she has been.
 
A stripe cross her face that will not be removed
Until all the body moves as one and unity proved
 
Her skin is late afternoon as the colors collide 

 

pigments have clashed but still boasts them with pride
 
She is damaged, molested and consistently ill..
But still fights for tomorrow and you can't break her will.
 
My America is beautiful.