Little Boy Roger

The crowd is growing,

Louder, larger.

The grief turns to rage,

For little boy Roger.

His classmates, his parents,

Screaming, crying.

Hurt shocked

As he lied there, dying.

The hallway if flooding,

With blood and with people,

And now with the priests,

from all the town steeples.

They're leading a prayer

Of hope and of healing,

Watching the boy,

All of them kneeling.

Here comes the doctors,

The last to arrive,

Not giving a care

If he's even revived.

Now Roger is dead,

He's no longer here.

All because he called Tom

His darling, his dear.

He loved him so truly,

So honest, so pure.

Apparently it was just to much

For Tom to endure.

Do you feel better? Do you like it?

Can you even feel bad,

For the 9 year old gay boy,

With one mom and two dads?

Poor Roger lost his life

To a boy with a gun.

It's done, but not over.

The fight is not won.

Was it a choice?

What I've chosen is
To love her.
To be with only her.
To hold her close no matter where we are or who is looking.
To be the only one she wakes to in the morning.
To be the support that her family never was to her.
To care for her the way her peers never did.
To be the person she relied on.
To be the love of her life.
To hopefully fulfill her life, as much as she is mine.
To live every dream to its fullest, not knowing where it will end, not knowing if ours will be the same.
To be strong for her, for the world.
To not care what others think.
To care about equal rights.
To enforce love in as many lives as I can touch.

What I've not chosen is
To be ridiculed.
To be labeled as a freak, a creep, a pervert, a second-class citizen.
To be hurt.
To be pushed aside.
To never be able to marry.
To be unequal from you.
To be gay.