Open Book

I fear for the future;

There is so much effort needed in believing.

The bones of broken trust scream out in agony.

There goes another brother,

Another sister,

Lost to the seductive and toxic addiction to hate,

That sweet rage outlet causes false catharsis,

As another goes knocking on Her door,

Needs a couch to crash on

Because home is not the haven that was promised.

The streets smell like iron bars on high school windows,

The residents brace for impact

As a boar comes charging through their city.

Another day, another mark for the record.

People are in danger,

We see it every day,

For some in greater graphic detail than others.

People are harassed and threatened,

Voices set to silent by force,

Because somewhere up top,

As much as it may be dismissed,

It is known that stories and words are power.

A tale as old as time,

Where Change and Knowledge are burned at the stake

In the name of whatever covers expensive sooty tracks.

It’s over there, one might think,

Far away.

Nimbys shaking their heads in pity;

“Oh well,”

One might sigh,

“I got mine.”

It’s so hard to cling to hope,

Hard to trust that we will fight for ourselves and carve out spaces.

I am so young and afraid,

Cynicism inherited from the fracking leaks into the river.

I drink its water with the privilege that we can afford it.

I can’t eat money,

Still, I beg for a means to get nourishment without being chased away.

Day in, day out,

Art I’ve been makin’,

Grant me some cheddar

So I can bring home the bacon.

I have been taught that knowledge is power and books are the vessel.

Thus, they line up to jump in the pile,

Another reality forbidden to be known,

Another story deemed unsavory.

I wear my mind, heart, and fire on my sleeves,

The stitches, so wonderfully wonky and sharp.

I’ve much to learn, and places I know will guard our tales,

Protect our riotous songs and angry pages.

I know not much,

But I am one with the names and people who burn

For the sake of the greed for power the higher authority craves.

Still, I am merely one banned open book

Laid upon the steps leading to a vast library.

The shelves adorned in wisdom and righteous rage,

Of literature that yells for action from every age.

Revolutions are riots in their infancy,

And I will happily hold aloft the shrieking little future in my arms

In hopes someday, it will grow up to become a movement

Instead of a retreat.