Dedication — For The Ones Who Got Tired Of Pretending The Door Wasn’t Open
This is for the people who watched rules get ignored long enough to rot.
For the ones who were called cruel for asking for order.
For anyone who learned that saying “enough” gets you labeled before it gets you heard.
If you’re allergic to consequences, turn back now.
This one doesn’t whisper.
Prologue — When Enforcement Became a Dirty Word
Somewhere along the way, doing the job became controversial.
Not abusing it.
Not breaking it.
Just enforcing it.
We grew up in a country where lines mattered.
You crossed them legally or you didn’t cross them at all.
Simple.
Boring.
Functional.
Then the rules became optional, and anyone who noticed was called heartless.
Cops were told to stand down.
Borders were treated like suggestions.
And the people paying attention were told they were the problem.
Generation X watched this happen the same way we watched everything else break:
quietly, with our arms crossed, already knowing how it would end.
So yeah.
When enforcement finally shows up again,
we don’t clap.
We nod.
ICE isn’t cold.
ICE is late.
Nursery Rhyme — “Follow the Rules”
Knock knock, door’s not free,
Rules still mean something, see.
Come the right way, fill the form,
That’s how doors have always worked before.
Cry and shout, call names loud,
Doesn’t change the printed crowd.
Law’s the law, not a vibe,
Not a post you get to rewrite.
Hush now, hush, dry your tears,
Order doesn’t disappear.
Clink clink—hear that sound?
That’s the rules back on the ground.
Poem — Enforcement Is Not Cruelty
I like my country the way I like my drinks:
full of ICE.
Not slush.
Not warm excuses.
Not watered down for feelings.
ICE as in Immigration.
ICE as in Customs.
ICE as in the part of the system that remembers
a country without borders is just a suggestion with a flag.
You don’t get to break in
and call the homeowner evil for changing the locks.
You don’t get to ignore the rules
and shame the people who still follow them.
This isn’t hate.
This is structure.
This isn’t cruelty.
This is fairness to the ones who waited, paid, filed, sweated, and did it right.
We’re the generation that stood in lines.
We filled out forms in triplicate.
We worked jobs that didn’t care how we felt.
So don’t lecture us about compassion
while demanding chaos.
ICE isn’t vengeance.
It’s bookkeeping.
And every system that survives
eventually balances its ledger.
Epilogue — After the Noise Dies Down
The shouting will fade.
It always does.
What remains is whether the rules still mean anything
after everyone’s done screaming.
I’ve learned that the people who fear enforcement
usually benefited from the absence of it.
Order isn’t loud.
It just shows up and starts correcting mistakes
without asking permission from Twitter.
That’s not cold.
That’s grown-up.
Lullaby — “Lock the Door, Sleep Sound”
Hush now,
the noise can wait,
the shouting fades outside the gate.
Locks are set, the lights stay low,
you don’t owe the storm a show.
Rules still stand, the house still holds,
truth stays sharp, the line stays cold.
Breathe in slow, let daylight come,
morning finds what night outruns.
Sleep now, kid, the ground is firm,
boundaries keep their quiet term.
Ice stays clear, the glass stays full,
nothing bent, nothing dull.
Rest your bones, you’ve done your part—
carry peace, not all their dark.
“They called it pain. I called it the price of being real.”