Helplessness-


We can feel each individual beat




I can feel the vibrations reach my hands




can not stop shaking



We are not meant to be angry




They say







be thankful your heart can still move

because it doesn't deserve too








but it doesn't change it






how you take your knife and stab indiscriminately






in our direction







attack







after

attack














until each spirit has been pierced
















by your shared ugly knife

They want you to forget
so remember

A wish to have lived
with a pretty lace blindfold
in a pretty world


                                                          Seven crawls out


          and though it comes from so far


                                                              slices through the lace

A type of fire
that travels through one, screaming
never to echo

no one can hear it
room softened by us, no sound
no one can hear it

more
nothing

nothing to say
nothing to think
just

empty
hurtful

dark
nothing

In the end

It'll
all
be

nothing


and maybe
that might just be



the moment


when


we


can


find




it




that may be what makes us special

It's so much easier               .
                .
                                           .                To cry out
          To let go
.
                                             to drown in whatever has us
        
     to willingly let it end         .
.                      .    
                                  ­              
                   this is were the hopeful part comes in   .

.
     but I can't seem to
  
                                             Come up with anything

uprooted from
dew ridden dirt
and while growing from
such a sight
it's still hard to hold
on to what defines
one as human

A ravaged soul for the cost of being able to speak
A dark  one for wanting peace
A troubled one for sitting back
A scorched one for endurance
And a stolen one for speaking out

thousand needles to        
                                        .         pierce a soul,  leave it withered
.        .                      .  

            and one to mend it        .           .
     .                       .              .                           .
             .                       .                    .                          .

Don't hesitate speak
Don't let your voice drown speak up
claim your right to scream

As long
as the sliver strands
continue weaving themselves
cheering on in
that
black world
glittering
overhead
we can still hope

Rally the glowing
stars, for all dear fellow be
-ings and recharge hope

When not even
salt rain can escape the claws
of it's cousin

When fighting seems
pointless

That's the cue
to fight harder

With every turn
people deny what exists
with every minute scrolling
through this whitewashed set
writing becomes
harder

to every new post
the poisonous nature of
being becomes
clearer

with every new
comment
hope fades

nod
        n o d
                 n. o. d
                          n.  o.  d
                                    n.   o.   d    d.   i.   n.   g
                                                      



                                                'till the end

Letter
                by
                           letter

typed
to drown in       a
                                     sea
                                                       of
other's letters
voices
                                     drowning
can
you
hear
them

Moving forward
burning inside
as a witness to the heartbreaking truth
of humanity

We shall blow out the flame of hate
We shall instead grow the tree of acceptance
and uproot weeds of hate
to be burnt in flames of passion

And start over

With each stroke come life
With each word come being's light
'till opposed shades blend

Haven't you seen it
yet
The white hair
drenched in paint
unwillingly released
gashing from a cut
onto the concrete

Haven't you heard it
yet
the white army clad black
lying their crimes away

Haven't you heard it
yet
heard how the white corrupted
souls blamed their thrill
on an old mans blunder

Haven't you felt it
yet
the anguish
The pretty white paint
being slowly peeled
off
a battle of brushes

Lying to oneself
Say I write for me
but try to find patterns
within the visible spectrum
to please those
relatively invisible

Heart of a being
to delve into utter dark
then power to light

Can you hear it
gasps of breath a song
can you see it
dancing white on poor black
can you smell it
the black stench of
a corpse dead within
injustice in the utopia

Can you hear it
the pleads of black corpse
a plead for humanity
Can you see it
the utopian paint being peeled away  
away
can you smell it
smell truth being spilled over
can you smell it
can you smell new layers of paint being
put over the brief truth

t h o u g h t s
r  u  n    s  c  a  t  t  e  r  e  d
l     i     k     e         l      e     a     v     e     s
n                    o                          w

l   e    a     v       i      n        g
           o               n                   e
l o   s        t

R  u     s   h   i      n   g     a     r    o   u n     
u   n      t     i       l                  
g.        o.      n.          



e.

.

this website is now
my procrastination space
save yourselves while can

Whichever fire passed along
is long gone
its ashes lost or camouflaged
in ground stained
from red rain

Regret stinks along the
battle ground aeons later
shock frozen onto
wherever their faces had
not been marred

fight for glory
die unknown
fie the enemy
until one in state

the price of heroism
a never ending audio
of fellow screams

from red grow red
honour the names
written in dirt and ash
and blood, to be trampled over
by desperate comrades

names tethered
to the ground
layer upon layer
drowning in each other
'till forgotten

sad little boy
looked at the ashes
and poured water
so they could grow green

thoughtful little boy
exulted the flames
and placed the thumb
of an open hand on his chin

love for that brightness
forever remained
memory of its warmth
can never fade

one more word to make
a hundred, and a hundred
more to be at peace

c                                        l
l.                                        a
   i       t         h          e         d
    m                                       d
      b                                         e
                                                   r
         o
           f        h     o     p     e        w
             m                                       i
                e                                        t
                                                            h

r
   a
       i  
           n                                 b                                        
                                                    e
          ­        d                                    a
                  ­    r                                    
                                                                ­                  t
                           o                                   i
                                p                              ­   n
                                     s                                   g
          
                
                     d                      
                         r
                             o
                                 p
                                     s



                                                            ­                   o
                                                               ­       
                                                         ­        n

              t
      h
e

                                 w

      i
                                               n
          
                d
            o
        w

n    
   ­      e      
                   w

                                                         b               c
                                                            o  ­                 r
                                                               ­ r                         y
                                                          n    ­                    s
                                           ­                                          t
                                                               ­               a
                                                ­                        l
                                       ­                        s
          o
        f
                        t
               ­             h
                                e
                ­                                                     n
                                                             i
                                                   g
                                        h
                     ­          t

confused little boy
watched as the flame
so bright and warm
was quelled by a fabric so small

angry little boy
stamped and cried
the flame no longer protecting
him from adult reserved reality

Little Boy
thoughtful little boy
he gazed upon
the warm flame

curious little boy
thought
what would happen if the
flame would go

Shall I compare thee
Pizza
To your companion who
rejects the delights of pineapple
Thou art more delicious and sweet

We raise boys with
fragile self-esteem
and girls
to coddle their
self-esteem

nothing more golden
than a delicious yes a
pineapple, yum yum

I think I'm right
You think I'm wrong
I think
my headscarf looks quite pretty
you think it
is a chain
I think
that all people, no matter
their culture
can get along
but you think I'm wrong

I think
my stubbornness is
reflected
in you
so who
who is right

a withered flower
sometimes just needs a little
bird, to find itself