My marketing professor (ironically) inspired this poem while consoling the class about impending Mr. Trump...I hope it allows you a bit of comfort:
The way is thick, it clogs our eyes
It moves the ground and aches our thighs.
The words are stuck inside our throats,
Not a sound emits: peep...squeak...or croak.
The way seems thick, we wipe our eyes
The ground barely shakes as we weed through the lies.
Is this the way that we've become?
Where we cross our "T"s and cut off our thumbs?
The path ahead is always unclear, while the road from the past is shrouded in fear.
There is no future if we look to the past,
The key is only to remember...not in memory to amass.
The fact is we've survived much worse,
And the voice of our beliefs and our children will traverse.
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