War.
One syllable.
Three letters.
Such a simple word.

Why then does it have such an immense power?
The power to break people.
The power to annihilate.

It rips children from their parents,
Tears lovers from each others’ arms.
It steals our youth
And smears our last days.
It divides the most united people,
Destroys the most beautiful of countries.

It is the greatest of hypocrites.
Some claim to fight for their countries,
Some for their oh-so-loving religion,
And others for their family's honour,
But all are driven by none other
than their own poisonous ego and pride.
And if not the individual,
The institutions sending them
To their certain demise is.

It kills most,
And those who escape it
Are left with a fate far worse than death:
An eternity of guilt and sorrow,
Of agonizing memories
And restless nights
Wondering what could have been.

It is filthy, corrupted and tainted.
Tainted with the crimson blood of the fallen,
The deep scars of the survivors,
The shrill cries of the mourners,
And the money of those in power.

And the greatest of its crimes:
The innocents pay the highest price.

You see those fancy politicians with tailored suits
standing in front of the crowds preaching
about the bravery of the people
who are being desensitised to killing
and taught to not feel or think but just obey?
They are not the ones who lay awake at night
too scared to close their eyes,
too afraid of their own minds.
They are not the ones who were told they were heroes
and yet came home to find themselves without support
sleeping every night on the cold concrete
in front of some big-name store whose owner probably
profited off the same ******* war that led them there.
They are not the ones who will try for the rest of their lives
To heal the generational trauma they inherited from their parents.

No, see those fancy politicians are going to go home tonight
to their big fancy house in their big fancy car protected on all sides.
They are going to have a great night of sleep
knowing they have just gained new funding for their campaign
by sending innocents to the slaughterhouse
so that the CEO of some oil company can make more money.
They are content knowing that
they have successfully put a price on a human life.

War.
A word that should evoke negative feelings
and yet has been so normalized that we no longer respond to it.
War.
A word that describes the most atrocious of realities
but that has somehow been made into a badge of honour.
War.
A word that should be feared and despised
but is instead weaponized to manipulate the people.
War.
A word that should never be the first option
but has become a shortcut for greedy rich people
with political influence to obtain more power and become richer.
War.
A word that was said to be associated with "barbaric", "uncivilized" people
but has somehow mostly been used by the "civilized" ones
and is now one of the pillars of modern capitalism.

War.
One syllable,
Three letters,
Just a ******* word.

I am sitting in the same bedroom I have had for the past 16 years,
staring at the same ceiling with glow in the dark stars plastered on it,
playing with the same ugly blanket my grandma gave me 7 years ago,
and hearing the same train whistles that used to drive me crazy.
Nothing around me has changed,
and yet I am homesick.
I am homesick not for a place,
but for a person.
I am homesick for the person I used to be,
or maybe for the person I will soon be.

I once knew this woman.

The strongest woman I had ever met,
but see, she was hurt a long time ago,
and ever since,
she has not trusted many people.
But once in a while,
Someone worthy of her trust would come along
and she would allow herself to open up.
And oh, were those times beautiful.

They were more beautiful than
a butterfly flapping its graceful wings to take its first flight.
More beautiful than the calm but spellbinding motion of the ocean.
More beautiful than the first shining stars in the dark sky of the night.
More beautiful than the first leaves changing colors when autumn came.
More beautiful even than watching the first flower of spring blossom.

There was beauty in her strength
but also beauty in her vulnerability.
Beauty in seeing her walls slowly go down.
Beauty in the way she expressed her feelings.
Beauty in her laugh,
but also beauty in her tears.

She was a strong woman
who knew she had nothing to prove
for her strength was undeniable
to anyone who ever laid their eyes on her.

I look up at the chaos around me
and see.
I see people saying their last prayers,
Waiting for their fateful endings,
I hear the church bell toll in its last call,
I feel the suffocating heat from the burning buildings,
I smell the smoke from the ignited city,
I taste the desperation in the air and the bitterness of regrets.

But in the middle of this tumult,
One thing stands out;
One person.

A little boy stands there in a tan attire,
dark gray ash contrasting his almost-white hair
and tears stains on his ivory cheeks.
A grim expression marking his features,
He shakes as if freezing
and although the heat has almost become unbearable,
he stands in the middle of the flames
barefoot yet unharmed.
A scythe lays at his feet,
and a pale horse stands by his side,
making his small body look even smaller.

As if feeling my stare,
he locks eyes with me.

And as the world burns down,
the reflection of the cataclysm in his brown eyes
and the look of innocent incomprehension he wears
is the single most heartbreaking thing in the moment.

Suddenly, I do not care about the screams and cry of the despondent goners.
I do not feel the harsh scorch of the burnt remains under my bare feet.
I do not mind the tears welling up in my eyes due to the fumes.
They are but a distant reminder of the atrocity surrounding me.
I can only focus on the strange guilt reflected in his warm eyes.

From those same eyes, a tear rolls down his cheeks
And as it reaches his dimpled chin,
he raises a little hand to wipe it away
And then waves at me.
I do not wave back,
too stunned to move or react,
But I could tell he did not expect me to anyways.

With one last look,
he picks up the scythe with an unusual easiness
and turns to walk towards the flames,
the horse close behind him.
And soon, they are one with the flames.

In less than 4 hours,
I will be eighteen.
In the last year alone,
I have changed more than in the previous 16 years.
I have learnt that it is okay not to be okay,
that I do not always have to have an answer,
that it is okay to be vulnerable,
that nobody but yourself can make you happy,
that I can express myself without any sound,
that it is okay to lose some friends,
that it is okay to outgrow some other friends,
that I am not one fixed thing and it is okay to change,
that it is okay to be lost at times,
that I have to listen to my soul more than my fears,
and that I still have so much more to learn.

Do not get so lost in another's soul
that you forget what your own is made of.

Sure, let yourself float in the beautiful feeling that is love,
but make sure you do not forget how to swim in the process.

Too often we are told that love is selfless,
but not that it is sometimes ephemeral.

And once you lose it,
all you will have left will be
a lifetime of memories and yourself.

So do allow yourself to love,
but remember to love yourself first.

I resent the water that gets to lick you all over every morning.
I envy the sun that gets to kiss your skin so softly.
I am jealous of the brush that gets to run through your hair.
I hate the pen that gets to feel your gentle touch.
And I begrudge the sheets that gets to wrap all around you as you sleep.

Black boy stripped of his innocence.
Black boy denied his right to be a kid.
Black boy labeled since birth.
Black boy criminalized.
Black boy stereotyped.
Black boy violated.
Black boy silenced.
Black boy monitored.
Black boy put into a box.
Black boy seen as a menace.
Black boy forced to grow too fast.
Black boy with his back to the world.
Black boy, you are loved
Black boy, you are a prince
Black boy, you are beautiful
Black boy, you are smart and worthy.
Black boy, go on and speak your truth.
Black boy, go on and dance.
Black boy, go on and sing.
Black boy, go on and paint.
Black boy, go on and be a kid.

I look at the despair around me
and see.
Men, women and children alike lay
on the ground in a sea of blood.
Their bodies unmoving
with their eyes still open wide in terror
and arrows in their chests.
Victims of a merciless quest,
their corpses decorate the ground
of the village that was once a happy place
but is now but a gory catacomb.

In the middle of the ravaged huts,
stands a woman.
With a silver crown sitting atop golden locks
and lifeless grey eyes,
she bears a white armor
stained with the red of the conquered
and a wooden bow in her left hand.

A frown wrinkles her ivory face,
and as she stares at me,
I am not scared
as I should be at the vision
of this blood-covered figure
but rather,
I am overcome with a feeling
of pity.

Her beauty was almost sinful,
but taking my eyes off of her
would have been blasphemous.

She is a constellation wearing a human costume.
She has the cosmos in her eyes
and her soul is made of the brightest stars.

Expectations are the quickest and most certain way
to ruin any adventure or new experience.

I will tell the world about you.

I will sing it to the birds and the bees,
scream it to the sky and the seas,
even whisper it to the wind and the trees.

I will tell the world about you
and hope it knows about me too.

I look at the massacre around me
and see.
I see battalions of men and women fighting.
I see the corpses of the defeated
with the memory of blades on them
and the gratification of the victors
with their bloodstained swords in hand.
I see friends and family weep for the fallen
and swear to avenge them.
I see mothers hold onto the cold bodies of their sons
and fathers getting ready to bury their daughters.
I see orphans too young and innocent
to fully comprehend what is happening.

Some fight out of anger and spite
and others out of pride and duty.
Some say it is for their kings and religions
others, for their honour and blood.
On either sides, pain and grief
outshine triumph and satisfaction.

Amongst the combatants,
A man sits on his brown horse
watching the massacre unfold.
Hair and beard like flames,
scars on his face
and eyes the color of the blood being shed before us,
he stares straight at me
as a man is stabbed in the back right in front of us.

His face is expressionless,
almost like a mask,
and the only decipherable emotion
is the burning rage dripping from his gaze.

I feel a sharp pain in my chest;
A numb pain.
I gasp for air that seems to not be there.
I let out a scream,
But I cannot hear a thing.
My vision gets blurry.
I cannot think.
Silence. Cold. Numbness.
Has the pain disappeared?
Has the world stopped?

Papa,
Are you there?
Can you hear my voice?
Can you feel my pain?
Do you see my tears late at night
As I reminisce our times together?

Papa,
Please tell me why.
Why did you have to leave me?
Why am I not able to feel anymore?
Why is the world still spinning?
Am I the only one whose heart is chained?

Papa,
How I wish you were still here
To answer all my questions,
To guide me through this labyrinth that is life.
Two summers ago,
you went back home.
You are now at peace but
I would give the world to have more time with you
An hour, a minute, or even a second.
Just enough time for a hug, a kiss,
an ultimate “je t’aime” and a last “bonne nuit”.

Papa,
You were my first and eternal love.
My teacher, mentor and kindest critic.
You have always been my guardian angel.
From you, I learned to walk, swim and dance
But the greatest lesson you ever taught me
Was to forgive others and believe in myself.
You held my hand as I took my first steps,
Taught me to use my brain instead of my fists.
Your intelligence, faith and dedication
Were often the source of my admiration.
You dimmed me “Queen of my heart”,
And no one shall ever take that title away from me.
My conviction and passion,
My two most prized qualities,
Are nothing but a reflection
Of your great education.

Papa,
Although my heart aches,
my mind is at ease
knowing that you are finally free.
A few months from now,
I will be starting a new chapter of my life.
One that terrifies me,
But I know you are by my side.
I hope that when you look down upon me,
All you feel is pride.
I cannot deny the pain I feel
But the joy of your memory is far greater.
I have found myself doubting my faith lately,
But for the sake of potentially seeing you again ,
I am willing to believe.

The coils on your head are the crowns
that were ripped from your ancestors' head.
The melanin in your skin is the reminder
of how the sun loved you when no one else would.
The stripes on your hips
are the representation of your growth.
The scars on your skin
are the proof that you won those battles.
So don't you dare be ashamed of them.
They make you who you are,
and you should be proud of it.

Look at me
and see me.

See me for what I am,
For who I am.
Not who you think I am,
not who you hoped I would become
or who you want me to be,
not even for who you've been told I am,
but for who I truly am.

Even though it might break your heart,
disappoint you
or crush your soul,
accept that I grew up to become my own person
with my own beliefs and values.

Look at me
and see me,
the real me
not a younger you.

That is the greatest gift you could ever give me.

What is the meaning of patriotism?
Has it become synonym to blind loyalty?
Does it mean letting your morals be defined by your government?
Is it turning a blind eye to millions of people starving in another nation because your economy profits on the sale of guns to their oppressors?
Is it believing that one's life is more important than others'
based on where they were born?
Is it being complacent to bombing innocent people one after the other
for what their greedy government or a small percentage of extremists did?
Is it valuing the life of 10 of your citizen
more than a hundred of another country's?
Loving your country is normal
but inherently feeling morally superior to the rest of the world
because you were born within the invisible borders of a country
is idiotic.

Maybe some things we are not meant to understand,
maybe some things are meant to be curiously admired
and appreciated for their difference and mystery.
And maybe some people are the same as these things.

The times we danced together in the kitchen,
The moments we shared on the waterside,
The days we spent locked in our own world,
The hours we spent talking about the sky.
All those memories fly through my eyes,
playing like an old film
as tears stream down my face,
as I watch you kiss her,
and smile against her lips,
like you used to do against mine.

I miss you.

I miss your smile
and how your cheeks would rise
to reveal slightly yellowed teeth
creating wrinkles at the corner
of your small shiny black eyes.

I miss your loud and obnoxious laugh,
I miss your warm hugs.
I miss how you would laugh
At my childish jokes.
I miss your tickles when I was sad
And I miss your goodnight kisses.

I miss you
And I wish I could go back in time.
I wish I could relive all our moments together.
All those moments I failed to cherish until it was too late.
All those times you carried me on your shoulders folding my little hands into yours
All those times we danced in the middle of the kitchen to old french songs
All those times you kissed me on the forehead
And told me you loved me.
All those times I took you for granted.

I do not only mourn your loss,
I mourn all the moments we will never have together,
I mourn for my graduation without your hugs and kisses
I mourn for my wedding day without you to walk me down the aisle
I mourn for the birth of my first child without their grandpa to bless them.
I mourn for every minute this world has to exist without its kindest angel.

If only I had known that you would leave so soon
Then maybe I would have never left home
Or maybe I would have picked up the phone that day.

I miss you, papa,
More than I thought was humanly possible.

Loving someone else more than you do yourself.

A romanticized ideal,
but a so very scary one.

How can one love so much?
I still do not understand.

Is it beautiful or foolish?
I have yet to decide.

Maybe because I have not met the one yet,
or because it is all a myth.

I guess only time can answer my questions.

I look at the horror around me
and see.
I see mothers and fathers helpless
as their hungry infants cry out.
I see men and women uselessly working the arid soil
in a last desperate attempt to feed their starving children.
I see folks weep as they are forced to choose between
nourishing their old parents or their young kids.
I see people so gaunt,
I can count each one of their ribs
as they shiver despite the extremely hot weather.
I see frail once-friends fight over a minuscule piece of bread.
I see a people suffering so greatly and so slowly
that death would come as deliverance to them.

And in the middle of deserted fields, dried up lakes and emaciated kids
stands a black figure.
Not a man nor a woman nor anything in between.
Just a dark ghostly figure holding a golden scale in its right hand.

I am mesmerized by the shadow and cannot help but stare
and although, it has no eyes,
I can feel it is staring back.
My curiosity disappears
as I am suddenly overcome
with a feeling of emptiness.