The New Standard

Sometimes,

I wake up in the middle of the night

breathless.

 

My lungs seem to convulse,

and each inhalation of air seems not to be

enough for each exhalation too quickly

follows.

 

I think about the world a lot

on those nights.

I think about people:

their apathy, their immorality—

their senselessness.

 

I think about history:

poverty and disparity and

genocide and ignorance.

 

But most of all,

I think about me.

Who I want to become

and what I want to bring

to the communal table we

all share.

 

I need to bring love.

I need to bring hope.

I need to bring awareness and

ferocity and the fire inside of me

that burns with each circulation

of my tired, heaving lungs.

 

I need to fight.

With every fiber of my being,

with all of the anger and indignation

of a roaring, thundering lion.

 

Fight intolerance.

Fight what we expect ourselves to do.

Fight pain, feel pain, and

fight once again.

 

I need to establish

the new standard.

Because we cannot keep waiting

idly by

for someone else to pick up the pieces.

We begin now.

This poem is about: 
Our world

Comments

Grant-Grey Porter Hawk Guda

Powerful expression! 

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