the point

She thinks it is pointless to wait
and the change is never going to come,
that it is pointless to waste time
writing our revolution poems,
our change poems, our dream poems.

It isn’t true. I’ve seen revolution
happen before my eyes:
I’ve seen the engines of a heart
switch gears as the light
creeps in and sheds compassion,
I’ve seen how revolution poems
can fall upon once deaf ears
and birth symphonies of resistance,
I’ve seen the fire flare in minds
that suddenly find connection–
I’ve seen these many
internal revolutions
happen every single
time someone gets on a mic
and ceases to be afraid,
every single time someone
gets on a stage and
lets their passion be known,
every single time we
come to a place filled with
strange faces and after
baring ourselves realize
that in these spaces
we have a home.

That is where the revolution
lives, I tell her. The revolution
lives inside of us as change
slowly spreads from mind to mind
from heart to heart, and
revolution happens when
hearts and minds
compel hands and feet
to move, to act
to become

And I tell her that
I need her revolution poems,
her change poems,
her dream poems.
I beg her
to let them out
we need them.

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