"The Gatekeepers"

In California’s golden sun, behind a badge and gate,

A sheriff holds the gavel high to choose your lawful fate.

With ink and whim they sign away what’s not theirs to deny,

A right to bear, not granted—born, as free as open sky.

They call it "may issue," but it reeks of tight control,

A maze of paper, weeks of waits, just to defend your soul.

They say, “Just trust the process,” but discretion turns to wall—

If you’re not in the circle, your name won’t get that call.

The Constitution speaks so clear, but not in county halls,

Where bias hides in quiet rooms and freedom softly falls.

Your records clean, your training sharp, your need as plain as day—

Yet still they shrug behind their desk and send your hopes away.

You turn to groups that preach your cause, their mission bold and proud,

With logos grand and emails loud that rally up a crowd.

But when you’re down and seeking aid, denied with no recourse,

You’ll find their phones have silent rings, their lawyers off their course.

CRPA, you speak so strong—on stages, shows, and mail—

But where were you when one of yours was met with slow betrayal?

Your dues were paid, your hands gave time, your voice was in the fight—

Yet when it came to standing up, they vanished from your sight.

So here we stand, denied again, by those who wear a star,

And those who claim to fight for rights retreat behind PR.

But truth is loud, and time is near when rights won’t bend or bow—

The people rise, the courts will rule, and justice answers now.