Dear Dr. King,
45 years ago today,
You were shot and killed by James Earl Ray.
Sometimes I wonder if you hadn't died,
If you could've done more when you were alive.
Then sometimes I think that by being the martyr,
You helped to do more with things that are harder.
Did you know I walked on your bedroom floor?
That I touched your house,
The kitchen door?
Today you could have been 84.
And teaching what's right.
All of that ended with a bullet in flight.
People filled with hate.
By the time we changed,
It was far too late.
For this never should have happened
To the human race.
How is it that we creatures
With brilliant minds
Could be so hateful
And so blind?
How is it that deep down we knew what was true,
But we would keep screaming terrible things
Until our faces turned blue?
Dear Dr. King,
I'm writing to say,
That I hoped while you lived
You lived every day.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Dear Dr. King
I am a 17-year-old homeschooler, author, daydreamer, voracious reader, introvert, feminist, klutz, fangirl, and overuser of tape. I love the impossible (which might explain my obsessions with fantasy novels and Harry Potter) but I dip into the real world . . . occasionally. I tend to get overly emotional over my OTPs and eat sushi or listen to Taylor Swift to soothe the pain. If all else fails, reruns of “Doctor Who” or “Supernatural” is sure to help. I’m a big fan of mismatched socks, Cheez-Its, and bittersweet endings. I believe anything Rainbow Rowell, Felicia Day, or Lin-Manuel Miranda touches turns to gold. If you want to win the way to my heart, help me adopt a baby elephant. Or a llama. Or both. I write to survive and will often yell at my characters if they aren’t behaving, which is always. It doesn’t usually help. I am a contributor to the "Fauxpocalypse" anthology. You can follow me on Twitter at @Magic_Violinist.