Democracy Lives

For every hand raised, every voice lifted, every foot marching forward

They told us democracy
was a document,
ink on old paper,
signed by men
who spoke of liberty
with one hand
while the other held chains.

They told us democracy
was polite,
ballrooms and ballots,
promises packaged for parades,
history sterilized for schoolbooks,
justice delayed
until it was convenient.

But we know better.

Democracy is not a thing
you own.
It is not something framed
and forgotten
on marble walls.
It is not frozen in time
or trapped in textbooks.

Democracy is a verb,
alive,
messy,
loud.

It marches.
It stumbles.
It bleeds.
It sings.
It shows up
where it isn’t invited,
where it makes the comfortable
uncomfortable.

It votes in churches
and libraries,
on reservations,
in shelters,
in neighborhoods
the mapmakers tried to forget.

It protests
with cardboard signs
and tired feet.
It whispers in classrooms
and shouts from the pulpit.
It fills the streets
when injustice chokes
on its own arrogance.

Democracy is not handed down—
it is carved,
every generation,
by the calloused hands
of the determined.

It belongs
to the undocumented mother
rocking her child to sleep
beneath a flag
that promised more,

and she labored for.

It belongs
to the elder
who remembers the price
of their first ballot,
their first march,
their first “we matter.”

It belongs
to the teenager
too young to vote,
but old enough to see
the system sag beneath its own hypocrisy,
and daring enough
to demand different.

Democracy is action.
It is the people’s stubborn refusal
to sit down,
to shut up,
to settle.

It is imperfect.
It is unfinished.
It is ours.

So rise,
with your voice,
with your feet,
with your vote,
with your art,
with your love,
with your rage.

Speak,
even when they plug their ears.
Even when they twist your words.
Even when they say
change takes time—
remind them:
time doesn’t change anything.
People do.

Resist,
the temptation to grow numb,
to believe the lie
that this is as good as it gets,
to trade your birthright
for silence.

Democracy is not a noun
to be admired.
It is a verb
to be lived.
And the ink isn’t dry yet.
The story isn’t finished.
The future—
is a sentence
we still have time
to write.

This post is public, because truth should travel,
and healing is meant to be shared.
Feel free to forward it, repost it, or read it aloud where hope is needed.