MY revolution begins at home–
behind closed doors &
within these four walls,
i fight the ghosts that haunt my dreams;
wake up in cold sweat,
and the smoke from my sage
devours these demons,
…even just long enough
to graze this painted wood floor with my toes.
my anchors pulling me closer to the ground.
these walls, i recognize,
are a privilege–
but who are you to tell me what i should be doing?
my revolution begins at home,
now that i’ve got one–
not among a blur of mostly white faces,
speaking in imperialist tongue,
asleep in tents in a park
i had no choice but to sleep in when i was young.
and you might call me cynical,
talk about how i’ve “given up”…
but my reply will always be
that i stopped trying to feed myself on idealism
when i remembered how it felt to be HUNGRY