I feel responsible
in the quiet dark corner of my life,
I am the problem,
I carry the matches
to our powder keg we call America.
When I read about the color of your skin,
wonder about your safety,
wish you wouldn’t all be lumped together,
I seldom think about me,
never had to,
ever feel any responsibility beyond feeling lucky.
I am a lucky man,
with a lot of flints in my pockets,
ready to strike with my own personal naivety
Or, am I that clueless,
to imagine I cannot contribute to the melee,
the reality of our times,
The color of my skin,
offers me privilege,
haven’t had to think about it,
I simply go forward,
yet, tonight, as I look at the constant protestations,
that disrupt the lives of our good citizenship,
no matter the color of any one or gathering group’s demeanor.
I am saddened tonight,
with the reality of my responsibility
I need to speak,
with more fervor,
with more unapologetic passion to suggest,
we are the individuals who need to begin to speak,
rather than rest on our own laurels,
believing we are doing right,
by sitting on our hands.
I cannot, no, will not, no, I simply must begin,
to rip my filtered head and eyes out of the sand.
I need to find the solution to extinguish the fires,
smoldering, in my apathy.
I need to recognize you before I can accept me.