ecophobic - Hello Poetry

I wish broccoli tasted like chocolate, so fat kids would live forever. I would like to change people as a whole, especially arrogant, hypocritical people who claim: "Fm a kinder, better person because I don't eat meat," yet wear makeup and skin products tested on thoughtful animals just to look 'prettier' because Hollywood lied to you when you were a girl. I want to change the same people who like pictures on Facebook to 'end hunger in Africa' but yet buy affordable and 'in' clothing and shoes made on the sweat, blood, and tears of hungry, underprivileged children. If I could say one thing it's that WE ARE ALL TO BLAME. If I could change the world I would change how hunger feels. Not the hunger of a promising football player with padded leather boots, or the hunger of an up-and-coming Wall Street businessman. But the hunger of a single Burundi child coimting his ribs, one, two, three, four... who then stops to cradle the outline of his beating, tired, and spent heart. I ask him how it feels and through cracked lips he whispers: "My stomach is slapping my spine, and the knuckles of my heart are knock, knock, knocking on the door of my ribcage but nobody ever answers." I wish I could change how kids at my school laugh and caU each other gay like it's a bad word. Even the nice ones who say "It's okay, my best friend is gay." Hah, like it's not spiteful. Words sprung from hate but the teachers still ignore it because the bond between a man and a woman is sacred, and no one wants to get in trouble. If I could change myself, I would make it so that I believed in God, and how even the hungry children and dead animals get to go to white-person heaven alongside the fat bully who calls me gay. But I can't believe in God, because to me, no answers were written in scriptures 2000 years ago, and no Priest can forgive what damage I've done to others. And I don't think Til ever know why we're here, or the meaning of life, but I doubt I'll find It on the lips of lying Popes. I wish I could change so that my red, raging words actually helped put out the fire Instead of fueling the anger and hate that burned firom the tiny ember of a little boy who always felt so different. I wish I could be satisfied, I wish suburbia and mortgages with bill-pay phones and scratch lottery cards were enough. To answer your question, I want to change everjdhlng. E m i l e R a v e n e t Dublin, 2013

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Oct 11, 2025

Oct 11, 2025 at 6:45 PM UTC

Spoken Word: Things I Would Like To Change

I wish broccoli tasted like chocolate, so fat kids would live forever. I would like to change people as a whole, especially arrogant, hypocritical people who claim: "Fm a kinder, better person because I don't eat meat," yet wear makeup and skin products tested on thoughtful animals just to look 'prettier' because Hollywood lied to you when you were a girl. I want to change the same people who like pictures on Facebook to 'end hunger in Africa' but yet buy affordable and 'in' clothing and shoes made on the sweat, blood, and tears of hungry, underprivileged children. If I could say one thing it's that WE ARE ALL TO BLAME. If I could change the world I would change how hunger feels. Not the hunger of a promising football player with padded leather boots, or the hunger of an up-and-coming Wall Street businessman. But the hunger of a single Burundi child coimting his ribs, one, two, three, four... who then stops to cradle the outline of his beating, tired, and spent heart. I ask him how it feels and through cracked lips he whispers: "My stomach is slapping my spine, and the knuckles of my heart are knock, knock, knocking on the door of my ribcage but nobody ever answers." I wish I could change how kids at my school laugh and caU each other gay like it's a bad word. Even the nice ones who say "It's okay, my best friend is gay." Hah, like it's not spiteful. Words sprung from hate but the teachers still ignore it because the bond between a man and a woman is sacred, and no one wants to get in trouble. If I could change myself, I would make it so that I believed in God, and how even the hungry children and dead animals get to go to white-person heaven alongside the fat bully who calls me gay. But I can't believe in God, because to me, no answers were written in scriptures 2000 years ago, and no Priest can forgive what damage I've done to others. And I don't think Til ever know why we're here, or the meaning of life, but I doubt I'll find It on the lips of lying Popes. I wish I could change so that my red, raging words actually helped put out the fire Instead of fueling the anger and hate that burned firom the tiny ember of a little boy who always felt so different. I wish I could be satisfied, I wish suburbia and mortgages with bill-pay phones and scratch lottery cards were enough. To answer your question, I want to change everjdhlng. E m i l e R a v e n e t Dublin, 2013

46

BLANK CLEAN WHITE SHEET OF PAPER YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER REMEMBER YOU’RE NOTHING BUT AN OLD TREE, WHO’S BEEN PUSHED AROUND A LOT BY OTHERS BUT I THINK IT’S BETTER TO BE AN OLD TREE, ACTUALLY… MAYBE THE COPY PAPER STANDS OUT BETTER IN A FOREST FULL OF WRINKLED BARK, BUT IT’S STILL A COPY. OTHERS MIGHT SAY: “WHO CARES IF IT’S A COPY LOOK AT IT IT IS SO **** CLEAN AND PERECT” BUT **** THOSE OTHERS, THEY’VE PROBABLY NEVER CRIED IN A BATHROOM YOU AND I BOTH KNOW IT’S MUCH MORE BEAUTIFUL TO HUG ASYMMETRICAL THERE’S ALWAYS A SPACE TO FILL AND THE LINES ARE LANDMARKS OF LIVING PEELING BARK TELLS MUCH BETTER STORIES THAN A FLAT DULL SHEET IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT NOBODY COUNTS TREES BY HOW MANY RINGS IT HASN’T, THE BEST PART ABOUT THE BRANCHES IS THEY’RE NEVER THE EXACT SAME that way every single leaf falls somewhere new.

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Feb 26, 2015

Feb 26, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC

Tree Sonnet

BLANK CLEAN WHITE SHEET OF PAPER YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER REMEMBER YOU’RE NOTHING BUT AN OLD TREE, WHO’S BEEN PUSHED AROUND A LOT BY OTHERS BUT I THINK IT’S BETTER TO BE AN OLD TREE, ACTUALLY… MAYBE THE COPY PAPER STANDS OUT BETTER IN A FOREST FULL OF WRINKLED BARK, BUT IT’S STILL A COPY. OTHERS MIGHT SAY: “WHO CARES IF IT’S A COPY LOOK AT IT IT IS SO **** CLEAN AND PERECT” BUT **** THOSE OTHERS, THEY’VE PROBABLY NEVER CRIED IN A BATHROOM YOU AND I BOTH KNOW IT’S MUCH MORE BEAUTIFUL TO HUG ASYMMETRICAL THERE’S ALWAYS A SPACE TO FILL AND THE LINES ARE LANDMARKS OF LIVING PEELING BARK TELLS MUCH BETTER STORIES THAN A FLAT DULL SHEET IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT NOBODY COUNTS TREES BY HOW MANY RINGS IT HASN’T, THE BEST PART ABOUT THE BRANCHES IS THEY’RE NEVER THE EXACT SAME that way every single leaf falls somewhere new.

14

When my father was young he mowed lawns for money. He pushed a second-hand spinning blade in the hot Florida sun for spare change. With dull coins clanging in his pocket and crumpled bills in his palm, my father fought to escape home. To him, home was synonymous with scary southern suburbia, where late-night television was replaced with screaming matches and loud fists. Angry eyes with children's cries. Barbecues bombarded with apologetic looks from neighbors. Pretending not to hear shatters and shouts of supposed 'baseball black eyes'. And so he pushed. Pushed the rusty lawn mower down strangers' yards, pushed away the sniggering snot-nosed kids calling him 'Spic', and pushed at his father's demons, crawling down his spine, whispering that he was no good. Years later he kept pushing Pushing Pushing Pushing towards whatever came next. Yet no matter how much he pushed, he was still the same boy with the lawn mower. Angry, mad, pushing violently ahead. The smoke of sanity is inhaled now, as my father's blood-shot eyes try to suppress the angry boy within. The residue of stolen innocence is not left unnoticed. A touch of tone on his once sunburnt neck and the man he has made instantly flushes away, leaving his father's demons. Calmer than before, a dying star, burning bright before collapse. Like a strong jaw, his father's anger is passed down to him, and I, his son, am now born with this seed of destruction. Smaller than before, but still seething. Constantly reminded, I sit in a leather chair surrounded by white walls in carefully controlled climate, plastic pen perched on my palm, I push. I'll keep pushing.

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Jun 9, 2014

Jun 9, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC

Lawn mower Pen

When my father was young he mowed lawns for money. He pushed a second-hand spinning blade in the hot Florida sun for spare change. With dull coins clanging in his pocket and crumpled bills in his palm, my father fought to escape home. To him, home was synonymous with scary southern suburbia, where late-night television was replaced with screaming matches and loud fists. Angry eyes with children's cries. Barbecues bombarded with apologetic looks from neighbors. Pretending not to hear shatters and shouts of supposed 'baseball black eyes'. And so he pushed. Pushed the rusty lawn mower down strangers' yards, pushed away the sniggering snot-nosed kids calling him 'Spic', and pushed at his father's demons, crawling down his spine, whispering that he was no good. Years later he kept pushing Pushing Pushing Pushing towards whatever came next. Yet no matter how much he pushed, he was still the same boy with the lawn mower. Angry, mad, pushing violently ahead. The smoke of sanity is inhaled now, as my father's blood-shot eyes try to suppress the angry boy within. The residue of stolen innocence is not left unnoticed. A touch of tone on his once sunburnt neck and the man he has made instantly flushes away, leaving his father's demons. Calmer than before, a dying star, burning bright before collapse. Like a strong jaw, his father's anger is passed down to him, and I, his son, am now born with this seed of destruction. Smaller than before, but still seething. Constantly reminded, I sit in a leather chair surrounded by white walls in carefully controlled climate, plastic pen perched on my palm, I push. I'll keep pushing.

12