By Zara Quiter, TIWP Student

This is my No Kings battle cry
because it might be war,
because it’s a war I would wage
against him.
I could write page after page,
I could go out on every limb,
but does my message even reach his ears?
Anger is the essence of my tears,
not sadness, maybe some fear.
I wish I was there to raise my fist
to eradicate this poison in our country 
that is much bigger than a cyst.
I am tripping over the news.
As I read it, it suffocates me.
Will we, in the future, lose?
Lose because he might be our greatest mistake
and all that he is going to take and take
and wait.

This is my No Kings battle cry
not my No Kings cry.
I could cry,
but instead this is an urge to tell everyone out there
to try.
This is our democracy,
our grand experiment,
so what are we waiting for?
How long will we, the test subjects,
sit around and let those subjected to our decisions suffer?

Don’t state that it doesn’t affect you
and let this hate lead us towards hell.
You are killing the unwell and unlucky.
I could write this a thousand times,
but this is me saying it,
My voice and my body
are completely mine.
And the limits on humans rights are not at all fine.
And I don’t think that tomorrow looks peaceful
because yesterday was bloody.
But, hey,
it’s America.
This could be the second civil war 
or an example of non-violent protests in the history books.
No one’s sure yet,
we just gotta look.
But I can’t count the injuries of this past week,
all I can do is denounce it and remember that:

This is my No Kings battle cry.
I’m just a simple teenage girl who didn’t even attend the protests
because I was on a plane.
But I still feel the pain,
I know it well, now
there’s a power we have,
and he could come crashing down.
Homemade signs and car crashes
tiptoe between the lines
of safety and “my dad didn’t want his kids to grow up fatherless” crazy
assassins and manhunts and dictator parades—
how much more will the oblivious believe this facade?
Goodness feels likes it will soon fade.
But, god,
I hope they’ll be disillusioned sooner or later,
and I’ll be waiting for them,
or maybe it’s you,
and I’ll keep scribbling on this paper,
thinking sad thoughts, but some
are not sad, but rather,
battle cries for those whom are with me,
ready to listen and shout them alongside each other.