The old man who worked at the grocery store,
Stopped talking to me.
He said I wasn't like him
and I never would be.
The lady who shopped at my dad's store,
stopped coming.
She said she was afraid of
Who she was becoming.
Dad and I agreed,
Blind obedience was to be.
People doing as they're told.
Afraid to act brazen and bold.
Speaking up or acting out,
was something people didn't do,
simply a sense of doubt.
But at what point do we stop following,
lead our own?
To do what's right,
Even it if it means to
Stand alone.
Father said the war would soon end,
But days went by,
and it would only extend.
All of the farmers, grocers, and school teachers,
Continued on their day,
Ignoring the torture, put on display.
Father went to the right
and I went to the left.
Tears fell,
But he wished me the best.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 9:58 AM UTC
The place we call home
And the presence of dread.
The room fills with silence,
No words are said.
The table stands alone
With no one around.
No soul to be found.
Hidden in our rooms,
While the chiefs are downstairs,
Drinking away,
To fill their despairs.
The place we call home is vacant.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC