Who gave us permission

To exist with such hope, such fragile optimism

When we all know the folly of daring to dream beyond —

A room of one’s own, a companion perhaps,

And if blessed beyond our thoughts,


And yet we dare to ask

For justice; safety for the oppressed

We dare to point out that it is you,

Our forefathers,


Our rulers


the ones who call us apathetic

That gave us nothing for which to hope

And yet we grow

We thrive

In spite, not because, of your nagging

And we befriend and are befriended

In the strange space between suburbia and the alleyway.

Home is someplace where you don’t have to be ashamed

Of the color or shape or status

That doesn't match.


As though the breath that leaves my lungs

Escapes only to enter yours;

And oh, I hope it does.

And perhaps the distance

Between heart and heart, mind and mind,

The vacuum in which we, atom-like, reside

Is not so large that we cannot cross

In the fragile interweb of words:


I spoke this morning

Crost three thousand miles

To a heart that beats alongside mine, in my chest

and looked out the window to someone alien:

Do they exist? Are they real?

If truth can only be kept long-distance, I will take it,

But oh, the days that distance closes.

And you,

Who mock us,


Who scorn us,


Who speak not our language

But call us barbarians

(or youtubers, bloggers, young people)

Is it any wonder we look not to you,

But to others