i feel like an indian in the city
under occupation. 

also i note, along with the angel, i had a king-size comforter in my backpack which saved me and my pooter.

memory turn back
into water.
trauma,
to deep light.

my angel still wants to climb on my shoulder.

now, in obombaland, i really cant tell, what is firework, and what is gun, for here you really cant tell.
 

when i'm far away from you my baby, whisper a little prayer for me my baby, and tell all the stars above, this is dedicated to the one i love.