America.

 

The land of the free, they said.

The home of the brave, they claimed.

But now?

Now, it feels like a dream deferred,

A promise bent, broken, bruised.

 

Racism’s shadow stretches long,

A crack in the foundation where unity once stood strong.

Separation in every corner,

Confusion wraps the air like a choking fog,

And we’re left grasping for clarity,

For truth,

For hope.

 

Money troubles pile high as the skyscrapers,

The homeless forgotten in alleys and doorsteps,

Addiction gripping hearts tighter than love ever could.

It’s getting worse.

Instead of healing, the wound deepens.

 

Unemployed hands, once skilled and steady,

Reach out for work, for dignity.

The retired, the veterans,

Those who gave their years, their sweat, their very bodies—

Treated like yesterday’s news,

Like sacrifices that no longer matter.

 

The people are hurt.

The people are tired.

And the people—

The people are fed up.

 

Unity is key, they say,

But who will be the locksmith?

Who will bring the people together?

Who will remind us that we are stronger together?

 

Is it you?

Is it me?

Is it us?

Because this land,

This broken land,

This beautiful, battered, beaten land,

Can still heal.

 

We are the hands that mend.

The voices that rise.

The hearts that beat in unison.

 

It won’t be easy.

Nothing worth saving ever is.

But when we see past the walls,

When we tear down the lies,

When we reach across divides,

We can rebuild.

 

Because America—

The land of the free, the home of the brave—

Was never about perfection.

It was about the fight.

The fight to make it better,

The fight to make it whole,

The fight to make it home.

 

And that fight,

That fight is ours to take.