47th President Poem: 47, by Emily Midea

Another election, another sigh
We say we’re hopeful, but we wonder why
Every four years, we cross our hearts
And hand the country over in parts

The forty-seventh will take the stage
In a country boiling with quiet rage
Half of us cheering, half afraid
All of us tired of the games they’ve played

Will he listen or just speak
Will he show strength, or prove he’s weak
Will he care for those unheard
Or drown us all in pretty words

We’ve seen the promises, seen them break
Watched leaders give more than they take
But maybe this one finds a way
To mean what he says and stay that way

I don’t need perfect, I just want real
Someone who leads and knows how we feel
Someone who sees the mess we’re in
And doesn’t just smile and call it a win

The next four years will tell the tale
Of whether we rise or whether we fail
But no matter what comes, we’re still here
Holding our country, holding our fear

So here’s to the one who’s stepping in
To the weight, the noise, the hope, the spin
We’re watching, we’re waiting, we’ve seen before
But we still want to believe in something more