with grief our ancestors sigh their wants poke through a small crevice in time and like salt to a wound the descendants take the old to the edge with their newer knowledge the youth lifted imposed blinders they put on their tough coat of skin and created their field of dreams the depths of which were endless the utterances and murmuring of the past comes from ancient bruises that this generation wants no part of
I hope for a change as I age lost in my hopes I’ve given all control to randomness of life and people I don’t like I could claim it now it’s true that we have the power to change our lives but I feel so weak and I don’t know how….
I am not okay. I am a total mess back on the floor of a home that has been drenched in lighter fluid and intentionally set on fire. The walls are hot with flame, the linoleum is melting under me, but I remain curled up on the floor. I want to cry out from the pain as my skin is singed with empty promises and violent threats and touch I did not authorize, but the heat of chaos dries my eyes and tells me I cannot cry here. I watch as my safe space disintegrates, crying out for someone to just come and fucking rescue me. I am not okay. I am suffocating under the weight of beams of complex trauma and posts of vicious assault and cement blocks of violation. My voice is too tiny to hear, or maybe no one fucking cares, so I curl up tighter in my place, allow the inferno to engulf me; a reminder no matter how hard I try to extinguish the fire, I will always go up in flames.
As a family, our country is a winning team, passing on what we owe to our future. When we actively choose to seek progress for the cities and the rural lands, it is for the good of our soul and others’ lives. Let us become the compassionate ones, the kinder ones. Let us choose to foster growth—giving backpower to those deserving of it. May an act or two or ten thousand of kindness and justice bring joy and betterment to those who require it and who have earned it from the suffering endured.