I thought you knew how to dance,
that you had dabbled in romance.
But you pulled on my skirt and stepped on my toe.
Your moves are clumsy, your intention shallow.
I did not enjoy this dance, and got nothing out of it.
Perhaps it taught you something, and you’ll be a better fit.
But I’m cutting my losses and moving on
to dance with a better partner to a better song.
Oh my sweet little peace-time child,
you know nothing of times of war.
When reason fades and violence spreads,
and no one knows what it’s all for.
The coming war is wild and fierce,
unlike any your ancestors survived.
When nature itself turns against man,
he must fall for once having thrived.
I wish I could spare you,
prepare you for what’s to come.
But I can’t stop what’s coming,
our fate cannot be undone.
I weep for your innocence,
soon to crash against the rising tide.
Will you flail and flop and drown?
Or just take it in your stride?
I’ve raised you the best I can,
and now I send you out to strife.
Be safe, be well, find peace again,
succeed in and survive your life.
Everybody has an obsession:
perfection is simply mine.
At the limit of imagination
flawlessness quietly shines.
An imperative rule to follow,
impossible to escape or deny.
Inside I feel empty and hollow,
restless, anxious, and awry.
Powerless against the desire
to want better, to want more.
More heat than in a forest fire,
more water than Western shores.
Chasing an unattainable dream
to ends of the very Earth
only to simmer and sear and scream
at the futility of birth.
I will never be perfect to me,
nor anything else, in fact.
An improvement is often likely,
depending on how I react.
The only consolation there is
in this pointless exercise
is producing something imperfect
in front of my very eyes.
I could bury my head in the warm embrace
of Mother Earth’s sandy breast.
My body exposed, but my head is safe.
To fate I leave the rest.
I could stretch my head up into the sky,
above the clouds, where the eagles fly.
My heart stands below, my mind soars above.
One tear for wonder, one tear for love.
Death approaches swiftly,
I must choose either down or up.
I’ll die either way, but I still may
have a say in how I end up.
To look inside and discover oneself
is a gift to the lucky few.
To look outside and be amazed at life
is something I don’t often do.
Here in this moment, when my time seems up,
I still have a quick moment or two
to exercise my power, my right, my choice,
to act on the world anew.
I leave my mark, a head-shaped hole,
in the lowest cloud in the sky.
I die standing tall and proud on my feet,
wind in my hair, the sun in my eye.
I don’t want your pity, your charity.
I’m not your good deed for the day.
I want truth and fairness and honesty,
so I can live in a dignified way.
My legs don’t work, but my spirit stands tall.
Our skins don’t match, but we’re the same within.
The promise “equality, liberty, and justice for all”
is spoken and broken without breathing in.
Being treated like a person isn’t a lavish claim.
Respect ain’t a favor. I don’t owe you for this.
I’m different but equal in every single way.
Your ignorance is stealing my life for your bliss.
A snide remark, a playful pinch,
gaslighting and buttonholing and cruel victim blaming.
This boy’s club will protect their own in a cinch:
we are just dressing for windows, canvas for framing.
I just want to be seen for who I really am.
More than my color, my legs, or what’s in between.
A human with dreams and promise and hands,
willing to work fair and free and clean.
But the deck’s stacked in your favor,
and you don’t even see it.
The history of poverty and slavers:
you don’t feel it.
I respect that this is hard for you,
‘cuz you think you did nothing wrong.
Changing minds is grievously slow,
and those listening must be strong.
I don’t have all the answers,
I’m no knight or wizard or king.
But I know we have to converse,
it’s how we fix this thing.
Just think of what if you were me,
try putting yourself in my shoes.
How would you like your life to be?
What shouldn’t you get to choose?
Wouldn’t you like a life of fairness?
Where you got what you deserved?
Or at least the same shot at happiness
that silver spooners were served?
That’s all I want. A clean shot at life.
Not to be hindered or burdened so much.
I should be free to be husband or wife,
and stand proudly with my crutch.
Do better, be nicer, focus every day.
Your co-citizens are on the line, this ain’t no joke.
This country’s dream can make it great
but not if the people ain’t woke.