Morrison Poem by Inger Jansen

And here I am broken
Writing songs and poems
With my left hand
In a cell with no light
I do not belong here
My skin is dark
My mood is darker
But still I write
As they wrong the right
Because they see us with clothes tattered and old
They say we do not belong in areas like that
Upper class, what class?
I thought class had little to do with money.
Perhaps it is, in the fashions you wear.
Best to hide the scars you bear.
I swear I am innocent
Nobody seems to hear
And if I scream
I would be sentenced for contempt
As if they have no contempt for me
I write it all down
My songs
And I remember the sounds of music,
In a place where I hear only man's turmoil and chains and steel doors slamming shut
Closed.
My book is not closed.
And I will sign my name on every wall
Every stained wall,

Morrison.