born raven at the bottom of the totem pole
hustle like raindrops for new blooms on crooked wood
from fam'ly tree where die-hard habits took their toll
juggling bills and ideals while fighting to find good
in a world where wealth defines worth, often from birth
cursed with serf DNA, plus third world streams of thought
never bought into belief systems beyond earth
still stained by dirt amidst all the plastic I've bought
can't wash it clean in water, there's grime in my soul
there's rhymes in my head with reasoning that seems lost
calculating foreign angles strict squares can't hold
they've forgotten the hard stone soul beneath soft moss
but my bed's hardscrabble, still I dream without shame
chasing my trickster destiny; raven's my name
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