My name is Freda Anderson and one day, I'm going to change the world. A lot of peolpe have told me that one person can't possibly have an effect on the world, esecially not me. I thought about it and even considerd that maybe, they were right. But I decided that the world needs changing and some one, somewhere, some day, is going to change it. It may as well be me right? I mean, why not? I have as much chance as anyone else. There are things in this world that are messed up, I'm not going to stand by and watch. I could fill this space up with useless information, but that would be a waste of both your time, and mine. Instead I will put up this poem that my brother wrote that I feel goes perfectly with what I have said so far.

March
Screamin’ out.

Screamin’ out. Nobody’s listening.

The sun has set on the ears of the world. Nobody’s listening. Screamin’ out. I won’t whisper anymore.

I’ll light the night up. I’ll find a light in every corner. We all know cities never sleep. Can’t stay blind much longer. The sun has set on the ears of the world.
Nobody’s listening. I won’t whisper anymore. Screamin’ out.

Light this night up. Find a light in every corner. Cities never sleep. The world’s too quiet. The sun has set on the ears of the world. Screamin’ out. Nobody’s listening. I won’t whisper anymore. Can’t stay blind much longer. Pretend monkeys, eyes shut tight, hands clamped over ears, with mouth sewn shut by their own hands. Looking the fool, yet acting the snob. Things happen to “other people” in “other places.” There's no other truth. Is there? Doomed, like a lab animal floating in test tube red goo. Adrift in a jar, buried under a rock, with the glass painted black. But I’m turning the lights back on.

The sun has set on the ears of the world. The world’s too quiet, make some noise. Light the night up. Don't let the city sleep. Nobody’s listening. Scream out. Don't whisper anymore. Find a light in every corner. Can’t stay blind much longer. Pretend monkeys, eyes shut tight, hands clamped over ears, mouths sewn shut by the hands of ignorance. The fool acts the snob. Things happen to “other people” in “other places.” There's no other truth. Is there? Adrift in a jar, buried under a rock, with the glass painted black. Doomed lab rats floating in test tube red goo. Turn the lights back on. I'll tear off the paint, if it tears my nails out, and my fingers turn into bloody stumps. With each scratch, more light will shine through. See me and all others who refuse to be blinded by the bandana that covers the world’s eyes, soaked in the blood of the victims of lies. Rock hard reality. Hands taken from ears, eyes forced open and stitches ripped from lips. Bleeding at first, crouching in shock as light pierces through eyes that have forgotten how to see. No more comforting ooze of ignorance. Hear the jar crack, see the world in shadows and feel an outcry, long postponed welling up inside, no longer blocked a sewn shut mouth. Long for the old world. The safe dark beckons. I won’t stand in the way. Wanna go back, fine. Not after all that's been seen. Minds will tear themselves apart will guilt before going back to that former life of darkness, eyes won’t shut, ears become acute and never again will there be silence. Think of all the others, buried. Think of this, get up, wipe away the grim and blood and dirt, and march with me.

Well, that's really all I have left to say.