Life is beautiful and ugly, and so are people—even those we love.
You think you can know a person by their face,
or their skin, or their names, or even their voices—
but there's only so much you can judge away
with your filtered line of thinking things through.
I didn't think much of the headlines or the news,
but I saw the way your face scrunched as if you
couldn't believe your ears—that this reality
wasn't yours, never had been, it was a lie.
You didn't want to look in the mirror
and see a bigot or a racist or a hater.
I didn't want to call you those names either,
because I looked at you with the gloss of love
and didn't think the era of your birth defined you.
But looking at you, really seeing you, I wondered,
"Do I really know him at all?"
What I wanted to believe out of everything
was that love would conquer all (trite, I know),
the good would triumph over any and all evil,
and our world would not disappoint us.
But there are disappointments every day,
especially to those of us who are hungry
or destitute or needy or suffering—
and sometimes there are no words
to account for the harm administered.
Society tells us to look the other way,
put our heads down and pray for relief,
but I look in the mirror every day and
feel so sick of my tired and helpless self.
Some days the best I can do is rail against
you and all your rampant backwater ideals
even as I know you are from a bygone time
that is still striving for a voice and a stance,
despite all the wrong that's been done.
Love is all I have to offer you these days,
because I want to believe in love that changes,
but you have to do the changing yourself
while I try to mend my broken ways and
strike out to be better and do better.
I'll get no accolades or commendations for it,
maybe I'll just be spit at in anger and spite,
but tomorrow is another day, for better or worse,
and I have to believe in the goodness we can be
even as I recognize the fallacy of what we are.