Dollar Bill Ballot Box

I used to keep a pocket full of bills,

One, explaining that free speech was a right so sacred it could kill Another, saying that we have the freedom to press, again, and in that pressing we assemble the results of our oppressing, and from there I petition a list of grievances upon the bill that I feel is most represented on capitol hill

With this sword of ink, I write to you in the hopes that you might think

That the bills we write on aren’t as white, as the dollar bills that we dream of at night

That the box that we are most likely to fill are the prison cells and schoolhouse hells

For which a ballot box isn’t in sight, and it doesn’t seem right

That we are checking our votes on our dollar bills

Money, the real democracy we count until our bodies are ill

And we can’t spare a second still

To think about the people without a vote, except with a special kind of bank administered note

The dollar bill, a tapestry we can’t steal

Yet the bonds we form aren’t real

And we can’t spare a second still

Using the tissues of other nations to mold our newborn creation

Upon this great nation

For which it stands

Indivisible

Unless it’s weighed on green strands

When we rise up we’ll demand our rights be honored with every single bill

Our representatives are here to serve the people’s will

We fight until our voices are shrill

And he can’t spare a second still

And he can’t spare a second still

Yet, he can spare a second bill

Because his time is something that he steals

Your time is something he wills

To take your time is one of his thrills

Knowing that it threatens everything you hold dear

He thrives on your fear…

Shaking our hands are stained with green

Weaving these strands while we squeeze every grain of sand

And we can’t spare a second still

And we can’t spare a second strength of will

Because our time is what we sell for real

Our time is not just a second standing still

Our stomachs fill with rage, our money keeps us in a cage

And we can’t spare a second still

Because our votes hang onto our bank administered notes

And our time is what we buy

And when we look toward capitol hill Upon the eyes that demonize us

We stop for a second, and wonder…

And everything becomes clear.

We are more than divided

We are turned into quadrants of productivity

We are rewarded for pulling each other under

Because we don’t have time to waste

And we want to waste it with the ones we love

If we could only just taste it.

Then we hear the ticking of this two-dimensional landscape

For which we are flattened stick figures walking off the edge of the paper

Just to earn another paper to create a bridge to the next moment

The next can of food, the next shock of electricity, a roof to borrow,

The next moment of fresh air

And we finally breathe in… and in that moment, we have never felt so alive

And then we turn to the fire inside

Where time stands still.

This unshakeable landscape where we exist in this moment.

If we could only seize it.

Our passion is real.

Our fire will burn the sacred bill that encourages our nation to kill

Each second rests on every single window sill

Watching the days flipping

Our time is slipping

By the day we’ll be gripping

But the clock keeps on ticking

And we can’t spare a second, still.

© Copyright 2013 Roxanne Byrne. All rights reserved.