An Imagined Protest for Freedom is Reality Becoming
a Song of 2025 of a Real Dystopian Arrests of Good People
Once again, I watched the news, crying for the people, their families and the innocent getting arrested and disappearing in ICE custody.
NO ONE IS SAFE!
Not to cause alarm but my philosphy when your country has been taken over by thugs, criminals, and Nazis it is not an innovative idea to bury one's head in the sand. Remain alert, awake, and learn to filter your tine between the good, the bad, the ugly, and lollipop land.
An Imagined Protest for Freedom is Reality
Becoming a
Song of 2025 of a Real Dystopian Arrests of Good People
Imagine a crowded street filled with people holding signs and banners, their faces a mix of determination and fear.
The army, in uniform, stands in a line, some with shields and batons, others with rifles.
The tension in the air is palpable as the protesters chant and the soldiers move in to make arrests.
It's a powerful and intense image, highlighting the clash between civil unrest and authority.
Verse 1
In the neon hush of 2025,
we gather like thunder beneath digital skies.
Signs raised high, trembling with truth,
marching through memory, marching for proof.
Boots on pavement, hearts in sync,
The city breathes fire, right on the brink.
Bridge (Spoken)
Imagine a crowded street
faces lit by protest and fear,
banners like battle cries in the wind.
The army stands still,
shields like silence, rifles like warning.
The air crackles.
A chant rises.
And history holds its breath.
Chorus
We are the echo, we are the flame,
Calling out justice, naming each name.
We are the thunder, we are the spark,
Lighting the truth in the belly of dark.
No more silence, no more shame
We rise, we rise, we rise again.
Verse 2
She stands in the crowd, fists wrapped in tape,
a photo of her brother and his last day, his escape.
Eyes like embers, voice like stone,
marching so no one stands alone.
His absence burns beneath her skin,
a silent scream she carries within.
Outro
And when the sirens fade,
and the streets fall still,
her voice remains
a whisper against the will.
Not gone.
Not broken.
Just waiting
to rise again.
A woman stands motionless in the center of a surging protest.
Around her, the crowd blurred faces streaked with urgency, signs waving like flames.
But she is still. Time slows. Sound fades to a low heartbeat.
Her hand grips a torn photo creased, weathered, trembling.
It’s the face of her brother, who vanished in ICE custody.
She doesn’t hear the chants. She doesn’t see the cameras.
For a moment, she is inside a bubble of memory and grief.
Alone in the noise.
But not broken.
The world rushes back in and she lifts her head.
About the Creator
Vicki Lawana Trusselli
Welcome to My Portal
I am a storyteller. This is where memory meets mysticism, music, multi-media, video, paranormal, rebellion, art, and life.
I nursing, business, & journalism in college. I worked in the film & music industry in LA, CA.
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More stories from Vicki Lawana Trusselli and writers in Poets and other communities.
Grease, Grit, & Gasoline
I was watching the news as of lately realized, we are still fighting over oil in 2025. My kind, hardworking late Dad, big Vic, was a mechanic who loved his work. He worked with oil, gasoline, and all those products. He didn't fight over the guy’s gas station down the street. They would shake hands. talk & laugh. The only argument I remember is the time when my dad worked for a real jerk before he bought his own gas station. The jerk boss refused to buy a heater, fan, or AC for my dad’s stall. My dad was not angry. He went to the bank and borrowed money to buy the gas station down the street from his jerk boss. He opened his own gas station. His former jerk boss visited my Dad ready for a fight. My Dad, big Vic, shook his hand, invited him to see his new station. The first thing my dad showed the old boss was his his AC and heater. The guy left. My Dad told him, “Have a wonderful day. Come back anytime.” That was decades ago in another reality of time and space. My Dad just wanted to work hard, take care of his family, and bring home the bacon. So, my friends, I wrote this country song dedicated to my late Dad, big Vic. He was my hero!
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 7 months ago in Poets
Comments (4)
Stunning work Vicki! BRAVO! 💪🏾🫶🏾💜
This is bold and powerful. I love how you are standing up for human rights, Vicki. You are on the right side of history with this. Keep on doing what you’re doing, one by one we will make a difference.
This is powerful. That final image of her standing still in the chaos really got me.
This is so tragic yet hopeful. It shows the humaniry of the individuals caught up in ICE horrors. You, though, still leave room for rising up against authoritarianism with poise and grace. I shared. —S.S.