My Country Tis of Thee,
Sweet land of liberty-
Or so we sing.

Land where my fathers died-
But my forefathers died in a battle
Trying to keep their slaves;
My fathers killed your fathers
For trying to run away;
My fathers **** your fathers
Cause it's late at  night, and
He's reaching for his gun-no, wait,
His ID?

Land of the pilgrim's pride-
But so often we leave out of history
How if it weren't for a Native American,
The pilgrims would've died.

From every mountainside-
Like Stone Mountain in Georgia,
Where Rebel Generals are memorialized,
Where the **** was revived-
God, help me, I can't hear freedom's ring;
I can only hear white-washed history.

From every mountainside-
But these days, the mountain is in my chest,
And liberty's ring sounds a lot different,
And a lot of folks don't like it.

Let freedom ring-
And I want to fight for freedom for all-
#BlackLivesMatter-
I want to help-
HANDS UP, DON'T SHOOT!
But-
I
Can't
Breathe.

Let freedom ring!-
But peaceful protests turn into
Bloodbaths as those who have sworn
To serve and protect are sniped down.

Let freedom ring!-
I try to educate myself
On the side of history not taught-
I've always felt that Nat Turner was the bad guy,
But these days I'm questioning it.
I read "The Meaning of Fourth of July for the *****"
by Frederick Douglass
And I read "Bury Me in a Free Land"
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
and I read "Sympathy"
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
and I read "Letters from Birmingham Jail",
"The Mountaintop Speech", and
"I Have a Dream"  
by Dr. King.

When I was younger,
I'd research Dr. King & his colleagues
For fun.
I'd  wonder, "If I lived in the Civil Rights era,
What would I have done?"

But when I turned seventeen,
I realized, "I live in a Civil Rights era;
What am I going to do?

I hope they find me
Surrounded by poems that
Are yet unfinished.

Hemingway said,
"Write hard and clear about what hurts."

And I'm hurting.
And it's muddled.
And it's clear all at once.

But I know this:
It hurts hard.

When part of your heart
Up and leaves-
Even when you know that it's coming-
It hurts like part of your heart was up
And cut out.

It hurts like when you get home
And you run in-
And no one's there to greet you.

It hurts like when you sit at home-
And the piano keys are dusty.

It hurts and it's deafening
And deadening-
And the silence is overwhelming.

It hurts like a coffee *** that doesn't get empty,
And a grocery bill that goes down.

It hurts like unworn shoes in a closet
And it hurts like unwashed sheets
On an unused bed.

It hurts like borrowing his clothes
And reading his books
And writing him letters.

It hurts hard
And clear
And muddled
All at once.

It hurts like goodbye.

I smile
    
         But I am     sad.

A hard place to be
Different; and an easy
Place to become hurt.

I remember bumping into you
At the grocery store,
Looking at produce.

And I was looking at pears
And you were looking at apples.

You called "Hey!"
And I suddenly wished
I had worn make-up that day.

But I couldn't ignore you,
So I said "Hi"
While butterflies in my stomach
Shone through my eyes.

We made small talk,
Talked about the weather,
My family,
Yours.

Then the conversation turned to apples,
And you asked my opinion.

I've never been good at short answers-
This time was no exception.

"Well,"
I said,
"I think apples can be a metaphor
For humans.
Some people are sweet
But if they go too long without love,
They turn rotten.
Others are sour
But that's what makes them
Sweet.
Some are loved as soon as they come in,
And others get passed around
And never picked,
Dropped and bruised,
And they are thrown away
Before they can go bad."

You nodded and listened,
Obviously paying thought.
"Do you have any others ideas on the merits
Of apples?"

I started to blush,
I wanted to bite my tongue,
But for some reason,
I offered,
"Only that I've heard-
I don't know if it's even true-
That in Ancient Greece
Throwing an apple at a woman
Was considered a marriage proposal."

You raised your eyebrows,
Chuckled,
And picked up an apple,
Looking at  it in your hand,
"Catch!"