I am frightened
often
by the callings 
of my heart
that soul purpose
stuff 
that beats its demands
upon my palms
like, "Rise up 
and follow this path,
sister!"
When mostly I'd 
rather swallow that
saliva, sit down
and wait for
my fate to
run its course
in the background
while I soak up
the comfort of
my cool sheets.
I do not want to
confront the 
injustices of my time.
I do not want to put
a lifetime of effort
into a career of "No's."
I do not want to give up
my peace and quiet to
parent a babe. 
I do not want to be
vulnerable and brave
enough to admit
my human attractions,
or let love in.
And yet...
I do.
Oh, my gosh.
I do. I do, so much
want those things.
My insides demand
these things of me
and I say with such
slowness, "Okay,"
and "One day."
I try to stall.
I'm as lazy as 
I am tall.
I resist my callings.
I argue with them
before I accept them.
I resent having a voice
and a well-body sometimes.
I am ungrateful and can be
unkind to the abilities present
within me.
Because it is a responsibility.
And I am tired.
And I have no reason to be tired,
I just am. Fatigued.
And so I must daily find ways--
midst often failing--to revitalize
my energies and my motivation
to keep myself from falling horizontal
into complacent waiting for my
luck of living to run out.
I have to tell myself, "There is time."
And, "Get up."
And ask, "What do you really believe
and why?" And remind myself of the 
responsibility of those beliefs and
act accordingly, and fail more, and feel
that, and still get up again to try again.
I don't always know how to do it.
I don't always try my best.

But I will always try again.

Historical distance
allows for an anger 
that gets blinded in today's
gaze; a rage that
the confident, yet timid
can feel safely
because it requires
no action.
The past was bad,
but the bad has past.
We are awakened now.
Reaping the benefits
of our grandparent's
protests. 
But, no. That is not true.
Injustice persists, and
still we sit. We say,
in hindsight with such
confidence, "The holocost
this, and slavery that, pilgrims 
and Native Americans, the Japanese
internment camps--"
the horror of those atrocities
we wear like the dated, rusty
souvenirs of our elder relations
that have been passed down--
they remain valuable in sentiment
only, as data, dates to remember;
because we do not recall
the visceral, humanity of those
tragedies, nor the hum-drum
monotony of the daily life
and times of those whose 
lives like yours and mine,
assisted in allowing such
tragedies to occur,
by doing nothing. 
But, lo, we have our own.
Here in 2018.
In the United States of America.
We have our own.
In the world; we have our own.
But understanding what is going on,
being informed, caring, and being outraged
is to accept responsibility for your part in
our shared existence.
To be angry is to say, "I cannot accept this, so
therefore I must take action."
And action is inconvenient, time-consuming, messy.
And there are myriad distractions
to help you look away...
to feign naive ignorance, but--
Hey, hello. I see you.
I saw you look the other way.
You caught injustice in the side of your eye,
as did I--together we both ignored it for a while
hoping others would fight that fight,
but now here we are. 
And we must look at it,
at the environment our inaction has 
allowed to permeate.
We have ignored it for too long.
Injustice is embedded into the DNA of the USA,
yes, but that doesn't mean we should
stop working for a cure. 
Start by becoming one less symptom
of this oft-corrupt and unbalanced system
of States we hope to see one day as truly
United and for the good of all who
call its land a home.