America's never been perfect, but some put it into words, understood
It wasn't saints who wrote the Constitution, but men who had a vision
The country was born by revolution, against the British they'd stood
Along the way tragedies happened, bumps along the road and inequity
But ultimately, we know what is right, even if we do not practice that
As political thinkers looked upon America, as a form of human fission
It wasn't romantic, people built a world removing the native populace
By laws and rights of the country, the vast amount of land, resources
Were the engine of progress, and yet many were left behind, or died
Blacks were enslaved, Asians were allowed to immigrate, but to work
America's West was developed by labor, wars, sweat, greed gone wild
200 years later, but our flaws and wounds were never healed or fixed
So I believe in our nation, but in the ideal, in practice we have failed
We began our existence, through wars and acts of violence, political maneuvering
and racist acts towards those who got to America long before the white man.
We live in an era where our choices for dinner are a manure salad, or a bowl of
rocks. As such, I grieve the death of America's hope, our leadership, and our
process. This poem isn't about any sides of the election, it is about how I find
myself unable to sanction our process, as I believe in America, but believe we've
fallen from our morals, and outlook.)
