I am not a poet. I do not claim to be a poet. However, after the murder of George Floyd, I felt an unrelenting urge to put pen to paper. The jarring reality post-Floyd, was a lesson for me in white privilege. It is our moral responsibility to keep learning and to keep questioning the inequities in society. This is my attempt to explain the unexplainable.
Days of beige.
No color.
No questions.
Hours bleed into one another.
The is comfort,
in remaining
complacent.
I do nothing.
I stay safe.
And,
I stand trapped
With indignation
and the ambient beat of cries
sear. into. our. brains.
saying nothing
doing nothing.
being nothing.
Fevers rise.
Pulses quicken
a collective rhythm.
The call to action
amplifies.
Urgency. And still,
No questions asked.
Frozen in fear.
Confined by the prison
of Self Doubt.
Confined by this bubble of
the voices that judge.
That dictate. And,
Time fades.
The cries twist in the wind.
With a silenced fist.
Yet,
I Did Nothing.
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