You won’t see me in those streets
among faces of grief, theirs, not mine
because my fear wants to quietly weep.

Every shot and shout falls like a beat
I’m learning behind closed doors, in time.
You won’t see me in those streets

to march shoulder to shoulder, feet to feet
asking questions, seeking to find
because my fear wants to quietly weep

in private sorrow, my heart, my heat
comfortable here, resting in rhyme.
You won’t see me in those streets.

I write the song that prays for new belief,
hoping for answers and a loving bind
because my fear wants to quietly weep.

I sing the terror; I shudder in our need,
crying for millions, our collective lives,
but you won’t see me in those streets
because my fear wants to quietly weep.