Writing

Freedom is to have the right to

Speak, 

And to Think

But

What happened to that freedom?

Where did it go? Did we lose it, or did we never actually have it?

They tell us we can think what we want

I will not sleep tonight

I will worry and fret

About the outcome

Of this election

This election

Will either be a blessing

Or a curse

For the next 4 years

I will not stop thinking

Call me home, Mama

Mama call me home

Papa, the night is getting dark

Come out and find me

Call me home

I'm seven years old, in my best friend's backyard

Mama is calling

sitting in bed close to 7 am waiting for the election tracker to light up. 

sitting in bed close to 8 am doomscrolling through election websites knowing it's all futile now.

no matter what we pray,

no matter what we cry,

no matter what the news anchors deadpan

away,

no matter what the truth is,

no matter the color of the sky,

no matter the eleven years i've waited

this is not a poem. 

this is not a song.

this is not metaphor, a sonnet, an ode, not a ballad, a rant, not even a dream–

this is a plea.