Writing

We the people sing,

We don’t want to have a king.

Peace on earth and mercy mild,

Acceptance for every adult and child.

All the people rise,

We cry our anger to the skies.

We the people proclaim,

We are the people.

The girl who wears every scar like a trophy.

The boy who struggles with reading.

The kid who protests for their rights.

The mother who works 3 jobs to pay the bills.

“I could sleep ‘til eleven tomorrow,” I said, throwing myself across her bed, sprawling on her star-patterned comforter. Mary took a seat at her vanity, and I could see her eyes roll on her blue-painted face.

Restrain the roaring voices 

to prevent the foreseeable fights 

filled with rage and hatred 

that could permanently appall 

the people of this world. 

Lips must sculpt more smiles, 

I still remember how the railings felt,

The ones we used lean against at the bus stop.

We would grab the rusted bars 

And lean back and scream against

The cold air.

/look/i can balance a spoon on my nose/it will stay longer if i breathe on it first/don’t bump me!/or else it will fall/don’t leave me/or else i shall be lonely./