Deah Caldwell Poetry

Some of us are songbirds.

Some of us are snakes.

Some of us lie and cheat

and fight for debauchery’s sake.

Some of us are lions,

vested in our pride.

Some of us don’t understand

that we could if we only tried.

Some of us are treachery,

disguised as morning light.

Some of us are sunshine,

concealed as the darkened night.

Some of us are lost in

our own little worlds.

Some of us are women on the outside,

but really just frightened little girls.

Some of us have never

seen the world as everybody else.

I’m thankful to be a part of that

amidst this political mess.

Some of us have only known mourning,

but break a smile every day.

Some of us can only whisper

the million things we have to say.

Some of us struggle with

identity watersheds.

Some of us are sure of the skin we have

and the thoughts within our heads.

It doesn’t matter what some of us are,

and especially what we are not.

We are exactly who we are supposed to be—

a gift that cannot be bought.