as i sit here,
the sound of my fan reminds me that it is hot;
it's hot, and my bottle is empty;
the heat, the bottle, and my plastic chair, peeling;
mixed with the little pieces of plastic is hair;
plastic and hair and a grain of rice;
plastic, hair, rice, and my middle-classness;
the sound of my fan reminds me that it is hot;
it's hot, and i must stay quiet;
it's hot, i'm quiet, a fly flies by;
the fly reminds me that i'm a pest;
unpolished, unwanted, middle-class;
"no", i melee with myself,
"you must speak, you must fight,
as much as it's theirs, this land is mine",
the sound of my fan reminds me that it's hot;
it's hot, and it's time to speak up;
to stand against the money'ed up,
and yell when they act, corrupt,
because they need a reminder-
they do not own the bankrupt;
the sound of my fan reminds me that it's hot;
it's hot but we need liberty;
it's hot, i want to be free, and i am angry,
as i sit here.
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