We can’t mourn
before we’re asked
to mourn again.
We can’t grieve before
we have to believe
it’s happened
again.
We can’t catch our breaths
before the deaths
accumulate.
It’s far too late.
Far too late.
And all the while
some carry on and smile
in some acceptance
of the norm.
We can’t live our
lives worrying,
I’m told.
But when we will grasp
that our inability
for empathy
holds us back
from being
the very kind of people
our children lack.
Compassion is the compass
that will guide us
to a place not far
if we’re brave enough to
hold compassion
behind our teeth
and in our hearts.
Poverty’s a choice
our world makes it
possible and cyclical,
I can’t take it
every time I see a
crime committed
I think, why are we surprised?
It’s us who did it.
Systematically
we choose our future
and then we patch it up
only with sutures
and wonder why
the wounds still open up
instead of wondering
how we can stop
the bleeding,
the hunger,
the abuse.
Too many people
with the mindset
“there’s no use.”
Just maybe if we
focused on prevention,
if the people who need help
got our attention,
collectively we’d build
the place we need,
but selectively
we can’t seem to agree
on what that looks like,
on what we look like,
too much money spent
to make us disagree.
Those who spend it
would rather us not see
all the things they try to hide,
all of the greed.
These are fights
they design
with the intention
to blind.
And we fall victim
to the crime
every time.
Poverty’s a choice,
why do we make it
possible and cyclical,
I can’t take it
every time I see a
crime committed
I think, why are we surprised?
It’s us who did it.
Too many beds suddenly empty tonight.
Those kids too young to comprehend
the evil of one man,
and our willingness to arm him.
The harm lives on
with moms and dads
whose hearts cannot handle
the holes they are now scarred with.
Look them in the eye
and ask them why.
Look them in the eye
and ask them why.
Those who see
children shot dead
and choose the status quo
instead.
I’m sure that they’ll pretend
thoughts and prayers can make amends,
as people argue relentlessly
over and over again.
But talking is a sin
because what we need is a cure.
And one may never be found
because a cure must be searched for.
Look them in the eye
and ask them why.
Look them in the eye
and ask them why.
Like a faucet
the thoughts,
they pour out
like the water
that drips
from my eyes,
heavy from the day,
I am tired of this way,
this path we’ve chosen,
death over life.
I don’t want to live more gratefully.
I want the luxury to take my life for granted.
I don’t want to be reminded of our fragility.
I want the chance of pain to disappear.
We deserve to exist on our own terms.
Two rights make a wrong
when your right
suppresses mine.
Can we rewrite in real time
the rules of this arrangement,
the way that we engage with
all the people we call strangers?
Perhaps we’ve more in common
then we’re often told to believe.
Perhaps we’d figure that out
if we’d stop judging and just speak.
But oh, we only listen
to find space to interject
instead of just listening
to provide space to understand.
To understand all the things
we don’t understand at all.
We must choose to comprehend
or comprehend we’ll fall.
Who are they, those who tell us how to think?
And who were they before we put them on TV?
What makes them qualified to speak
on every subject, whatever they please?
And why do we listen?
Why do we make nests in their echo chambers and tunnel vision?
Why do we stay blind to other viewpoints?
Deaf to other voices?
When will we ask ourselves these questions?
When will seek answers from those who have studied the answers?
Those without agendas.
Because those who speak the loudest may only be trying to upend us.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt
entitled to all the cards I’m dealt.
Whatever my circumstance
is more often than not left up to chance.
Yet here I am,
the victim and the beneficiary,
and somewhere in between
lies the truth of my entire being.
One who can be pushed down
before I even try to get up,
and still one who can do all too little
to grab ahold of all I want.
A state of success,
too often I’m told,
earned on merit alone,
but hearing that gets old.
Sure, I do all I can
to build on what the man has given me.
But I’d be lying if I said
I earn more because of this nation
than I do from a particular situation.
Now, that is not a self-critique.
I simply aim to speak
about how we don’t choose
the lives we’re born into.
And that hard work alone does not atone
for luck or lack there of.
Opportunities handed out
because I look or talk a certain way.
Someone else, better qualified,
may never see that light of day.
So I never take for granted all that I’ve been granted.
For, I try my best on my ladder to the sky.
But I must lift those whose step up
didn’t start quite so high.
There are places where the bus stops are used only by those who don’t live there.
By those who are invited in but not to stay.
And those lucky enough to stay are as lucky to live nameless among the known.
But they’re even more foreign than when they arrived.
Full of promise and hope.
Their skin contrasts the cold concrete bench,
waiting at a stop for something that never really stops.