I don’t want to write,
a flicker of candlelight
that dies before it ever
gets the chance to
burn bright.

Hands held high
I don’t want to see
Black Lives Matter protesters
stand up in time
to take tear gas
and nightsticks
to their soft backs.

I don’t want to hear
the heartbreaking sound
of a once proud man
brought down to his knees
as he sits in a hospital
and cries and pleas
for strangers to see
the cost of his
masklesss mistake.

I don’t want to realize
that a lot of friendly guys
that I have known
just go with the flow
and don’t care to know
about the horrors
that keep happening.

I don’t want bombs to fall,
grown adults to call
the cops when they know,
it could get a kid
shot, or
that rich people make a killing
padding the pockets
of the people making rockets.

Right now, I don’t want to
admit to all of you
my lists of things
I don’t want
keeps coming true.