The flick of my wrist has intent,

And the people are scared.

Scared because of what they underwent

almost being left impaired.

But they don’t see what has caused my rage.

When I found her outside my door,

talking about some cage, 

and it’s not something I can ignore.

They call me erratic

because my words have too much passion. 

They call me problematic 

because I am calling an issue to attention.

I’m not sorry.

For having empathy and holding my bleeding heart.

Although the night might not be starry,

I must do my part and not depart. 

We praise the doctors who have taken our bodies

just to further their studies. 

They have given someone peace, promised solutions

Meanwhile children are being led to their executions.

We thank the politicians running, 

especially when they are cunning. 

They continue to argue and shoot us at our dinner table, 

and that behavior is damnable.

We walk with people who say they don’t care.

 I bet they would care if they were there. 

At the place where his grave was made,

and where now he is laid. 

They try to silence our mouths with money,

which is funny.

Because it works. Because we are afraid. 

And now we face the blade. 

The people cannot figure themselves out. 

They have too much to doubt.

What can they trust besides what they have been fed?

Maybe they might feel misled.

I know a man whose eyes have long gone dark.
He tells me stories of a past that he longs to forget.
Times when he was forced to bark
and hunt for the ‘suffragette’.

I know of a woman who no longer speaks her mother’s tongue.
Forced to run to protect her rights.
However, she was still hung,
only her shoes dangling by the lights.

I knew a boy, barely in the world.
Bound by his choices, he went out to war,
and watched as it unfurled.
No one knew we wouldn’t see him anymore.

I know a girl who misses her father.
Hasn’t seen him in years,
but she doesn’t want to seem to be a bother.
She wishes to get rid of the media’s jeers.

I am the parent and the child of a survivor.
We will forever have a desire

to improve, to help, to heal.
Because we are human,
and you cannot ignore what is real.

Was I always destined to play the fool?

Falling in love was never part of my plan.

Yet that is what most love songs say.

That we are puppets upon the red string. 

Maybe you don’t feel the pull right now, 

maybe you don’t understand it. 

But I’m not talking about loving someone.

How could we hate what we don’t understand? 

Is it the fear of something greater,

or that we are vulnerable?

I watch on the ocean, 

the country tearing itself apart.

Is hate and love really as intertwined

as the land lovers make it seem online?

In my pocket is a picture of my family and I fear

that if anyone saw it, they would shake. 

For it’s just my son,

standing alone besides his father’s grave.