Despite any valid points I may have,
disregard me,
no matter the connection that begins,
pay me no mind.
I am a Mormon,
and by that decree,
I am handicapped.
I have lost all credibility,
through all the searing rage in my veins,
the cold creeping of hate,
the warmth of love,
the doubt in my faith,
I am inert.
If I were important,
things would be different,
the world would listen if I were another breed,
but I am white,
I am uninteresting,
I have nothing to say.
Many treat Mormons with contempt,
they're not Christians you say?
I am told this country is free,
that's not something that I can accept,
who are you to tell me what I believe?
You may not agree with the existence of God,
but tell me,
must we experience a holocaust for you to respect my beliefs?
Racism is as American as apple pie,
as American as a Colt .45,
cocked and held to the head of equality,
this country is built on a lie,
freedom for every white man.
Post-racial America,
what a joke,
it's no wonder you confuse Muslims and Sikhs.
There's nothing wrong with being Islamic,
they are not a people founded on hate.
With modern advancement,
a new light to my eyes,
suspicions confirmed,
race isn't based on genetics,
it's based on social delusion,
truths twisted by pigment,
and the crooked nature of human design.
Sickening men steal children,
born naked,
smiling just as all children do,
they steal the light in their eyes,
their one chance at a normal life,
their futures,
husband,
wife,
mother,
child,
and still the globe turns a blind eye to instinctual cries,
children that never become adults,
from the sickness that spreads,
the fear in their eyes,
and still,
we hide,
placing a thin veil over sight.
The world criticizes intervention,
you say it's not your problem?
For God's sake,
(a phrase often misused)
fight for your brother,
despite the color of his skin.
No matter how many children the individual saves,
it is not enough,
the smaller part cannot save the whole,
and by turning away,
you fan the flames,
blood stains on the hands of the majority,
kindling the depth of sorrow that exists today,
we are the root of the disease,
the twisted smile that grinds the skin,
tears the flesh from the unprivileged.
I believe that even if I never answer to God,
this life is a test,
and in our cowardice,
we will all will drown.
But, remember,
disregard me,
pay me no heed,
I'm just a Mormon,
no latter-day saint.
I cannot make sense of it in my mind,
and so I'll label and dissect,
leaving the remainder to ignorance,
an entire country,
hands tied,
no longer listening for our father's decree.
Here we are once more,
back to the beginning,
not a thing has changed,
continue on your way,
treading lazily upon unspoken trails,
politically correct warpaths,
a migration of misguided souls,
carefree and careless,
not losing a wink of sleep.
Look me in the eyes and tell me what I do,
and do not believe,
tell me,
that I don't understand,
tell me your truth,
my skin is made of porcelain,
and that's the only thing that matters to you,
my actions are futile,
my words fall on deaf ears.
You may curse God for your misfortune,
but if you ask me,
we're the ones who created this,
we are our own mistake,
we the people,
have sealed our own fate.
I'm Adam Patrick Beckstead,
and guess what?
I'm a Mormon,
no latter-day saint.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)