I asked myself,
why am I proud of being a Human being?
For a while I didn't know
I could only think of all the wrong I'm seeing
painted in blood on the ivory snow.

I thought to myself,
humans are weak and afraid of the truth,
we hurt others to appease ourselves.
People use lies in place of solid proof,
for golden trophy's placed on their shelves.

I watched
as people laughed and hurt one another
for something as invaluable as fame.
And as I did I felt guilty
to be apart of a race put to shame.

I watched
as bravery was described as a man behind a gun
killing in the name of "peace"
I saw people hating and judging for fun
because that was what looked good at the time.

I saw death
on the news, in the papers, on the streets
and cried as the blood was spilled
I watched people fighting one another
for a position so irrelevant being filled.

I watched gangs go to war
because he's black and he's white
I saw people excluding one another
because she prefers dark while she prefers light.

But when I flipped to the next page
I saw that they held out their hand
to people in need
They gave their knowledge to those who didn't understand
and take in those that they feed.

I saw a smile in the crowd
when hope was not in sight
and I saw a warring man
put down his gun in that fight.

I watched them build a neighbor's house
when the going got tough
I saw them lend a shoulder
when the days got to rough.

I saw another man preach
when we needed a change
and I saw another one accept
when the other was strange.

We'll never be utopia
no but we can try to be

I can’t decide which part is worse.*

4 am, lying restlessly awake, feeling like I’m in some sort of heart free-fall, every fiber of me reaching for you and the mirage of what I want us to be.

Or

Sitting across from you in a room with friends, my stomach in knots, trying to keep my smile as smooth and cool as yours seems, working so hard to pry my mind off of memories of you and I.

Or

When we’re finally alone and the strained conversation is swallowing me like a black hole inside my chest, ******* from the inside out, the gulf of sentiments we won’t venture painfully widening the creeping chasm between us.

Or

Those songs on the radio that remind me of you, telling of what we have been, what we could be, their rhythms stirring up the strangest ripples of longing and regret and panic and isolation.

Or

The quiet moment when I catch your eye and try to read between the lines of your words and gestures, searching your receding depths for hidden traces of this same torture, wondering with mixed hope and fear if that longing still burns deep in you.

I can’t decide which is worse.

To endure it and hope it gets better.

**Or to leave and know it never will.