Thoughts, Prayers & Art

Originally published: April 8, 2025

I will not rise
for hollow words.
Not when justice lies face down,
its breath pressed out beneath the weight
of power unchecked.
Not when mothers wake to absence,
and freedom wears a number
on its back.
You ask me how I do
and I could lie,
could paint my sorrow in polite colors,
could swallow rage like communion wine.
But the pit in my stomach
won’t let me.
No, child.
I do not rise for pleasantries
while the world is crumbling.
I do not smile for comfort
when the truth sits heavy
on my chest.
There are boots on sacred ground,
and hands cuffed in the silence
of a million blind eyes.
There are uniforms
that do not serve
but seize.
There are names
we light candles for,
again
and again
and again.
You want niceties?
You want sugar?
Find another voice.
I have only fire now
righteous, unyielding,
the kind that speaks in tongues
and thunder.
I am the voice in the wilderness.
I am the wail beneath the steeple.
I am the priest and the prophet,
and I say:
hollow words do not save.
They never have.
They never will.
So ask me how I do
and I will tell you:
I am not well,
because my people are not free.
But I will keep standing,
even bent with sorrow,
even trembling with truth.
Because I am called to more
than silence.
I am called to more
than sweet lies
wrapped in flags.
And still
still, I rise.
But not for comfort.
Not for ease.
I rise
for Justice!