Year 250, My Last Independence
Dear Diary,
Tonight might be my last “Day of Independence,”
The last fireworks,
The last gifts of children’s laughter,
The smell of barbeque,
For I foresee a terrible omen approaching.
Over exaggeration comes to mind,
Maybe I’m being manic,
But the fears are real
And they are haunting my every waking night.
My cursed gift of imagination wonders,
What will my world look like one year from now?
The year in which judgement day was claimed.
I wonder what it would look like,
The American dictatorship,
I wonder how I’ll feel to look another American in the eyes,
And see someone hating an American they are looking at.
It is not hard for an empath,
To understand the motive behind apathetic eyes,
But it is hard for an empath to support that kind of nihilism,
That type of hatred towards effort.
So much of my life is unaffected by politics,
And I have enjoyed that peace,
In my own little corner of the country.
But what would it look like,
To see a country based on the idles of freedom,
Openly rebuke freedom in favor of power?
What would it look for my country to be in civil war,
Again?
A declaration,
By the supreme court,
To make Water Gate pointless,
We might as well let Nixon have what he wanted.
What does this action say about a country,
Based on the idles of freedom for an individual,
If their leader is unopposed by the law we all lived under?
This is not progress,
This is perversion.
I hear fireworks tonight all over,
Surrounding.
Soldiers during the Battle of the Bulge,
Imagined these same fireworks,
During mortar attacks and artillery barrages.
How could you not?
You’d think of anywhere,
Other than where you actually were,
Just to get away for a moment.
To happier times of fireworks,
A controlled gunpowder show,
With accompanying prisms of light.
To times of tribulation and freedom,
Battles fought in the name of freedom,
We take for granted our freedom with every red glare.
America has sadly been in a cold civil war for years,
Torn between sides to weaken the populace,
Using exhaustion and distraction as weapons.
America is young with the fault of superiority,
Instead of the cooperation of a world family.
America is a family,
Every family has a civil war,
Every civil war will have the poets.
All artist struggle to find an audience,
Struggling even more to please the algorithm,
All while arguing with the amalgamation they built inside themselves.
Working tirelessly to find an outlet,
That will give back to their souls,
Not just their wallets.
To create something someone will enjoy,
To inspire endlessly,
To not lose the joy.
Before I watch history repeat itself in the “Land of the Free,”
Before the word “freedom” is said so many times it loses meaning,
Before friends and loved ones are dragged through American streets,
Again…
I will write poems,
Critique the hypocrites,
Deny the power seekers,
Speak the truth,
Until there are no words left in my throat,
Or bones left in my hands.
250 years young,
And admittedly,
Still experiencing growing pains.
