I don't normally write pieces regarding my personal thoughts on politics, ethics or current events. That's not to say I am not very aware or uninformed of world news. In fact, I make an effort to be plugged in to the news. I have many opinions about these topics as well, as many people naturally do. I have just always found it nerve-wracking to so publicly state my view. That's what makes this piece about as rare as a unicorn vacationing in the Bermuda Triangle. In private, I release my feelings and thoughts in the only way my create head knows how - through art and writing. Poetry about everything from civil injustice to the need for peace to even the beauty of this Earth have just sort of fallen out of my head. So, with the 4th of July among us, I thought I would share a poem of mine first penned on April 3 2016. These are simply my thoughts. My questions. My conversation with God and myself.

I sit here and contemplate

the state of my America.

What does it mean

to say, "My America?"

Do I have the right

to call this my America?

Is it because I am white

that this is my America?

Because it hurts my soul

to think of that America.

I want to grow and thrive

in a color-blind America.

I want to fall in love

in a color-blind America.

I just want to breathe the air

of a color-blind America.

Growing up, I envied

the different shades of America.

I wanted to be kissed

by the sun of America.

I longed for a community;

brothers and sisters of America.

I yearned for a culture

but you don't get that in America.

So, how can I call

this place "my America"?

When I don't believe

in this place called America.

They say I'm a daughter

of the fight for America;

that my blood runs deep

in the veins of America.

Yet that does not give me the right

to call this my America,

for the blood of people like me

did not build this America.

It is the blood of the brothers

enslaved and forced into America,

and the tears of the sisters

raped and sold in America,

and the different foreign tongues

and churches, mosques, and synagogues in America

that founded this country

that made the dream of America.

And yet here they are now

still not equal in America.

Their blood is still spilled

by their own, our own, and the "protectors of America".

A home still burns

in this suburb called America.

So, no, I do not. I will not

sit and call this "my America".

And I pray to the good Lord,

this is not your America.

All people have the same shot

within my America.

We accept every shade

in the fabric of my America.

Religion, gender, and nationality are embraced

with open arms in my America.

We are all free to love

in this place called my America.

Will this be the state

of a future America?