How

A poem I wrote in 2017 at a very obvious point in time. Didn't think I'd be revisiting it almost ten years later. An unfortunate time capsule that feels too relevant to the present.

Photo by Daniele Levis Pelusi on Unsplash

How are we supposed to smile?
How are we supposed to feel joy,
when our explosive leader pushes us 
to tomfoolery and no glory
at the edge of a plank
ready to snap in half?

How can we get along? 
How can we overcome, 
when he's dividing us 
into a blackhole 
of oblivion? 

How are we supposed to go out? 
How can we feel a shred of safety, 
when the last thing you see is the October sky? 
When the last thing you feel is grass, dirt, 
blood, and hot bullets in your back 
tearing into your kidneys?

How should we live? 
How should we breathe easy, 
when every news station is alerting terror 
with glee? When too many are wagging their fingers 
at your concerns? When you're made to stand 
facing the corner with a 'dunce' hat? 

How are we supposed to move on? 
How can we remind ourselves 
that our worlds will spin 
more tomorrows? How 
should we honor those 
lost and unknowable 
that are here 
and yet gone? 

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