then the air whispered
to my ears
the untold stories,
& unsung melodies,
of the lonely souls
who claimed their own lives
because of grave melancholia

a chill climbed onto my spine
and hoped that someday,
they'll find their paradise.

every single
detail about
you reminds
me:

we are
gods;

but i was
never holy
before
you.

The young boy was raised in the sun like a raisin.
Detached shrouds were his comforters,
As were periodical mental lapses of living in the upper boundary of Amazement.
Up there, he would be able to see Caeli.
Teachers warned him to focus on reality,
At conferences his parents saw he was failing.

But it was as if he didn't exist,
His presence was fading in the back of the crowd.
He was there, but not there,
On a aloof voyage sailing the ship he designed.

I believe the reason he almost drowned
Was because he thought he could explore the depths of Atlantis.
No one could find him.
He returned after the horizon bloomed.

And still to this day he lives a life of clouds and sunsets.
You might just be able to find him,
I know I have.

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith


(Originally written 11/18/10
Revised 9/23/14)

Children are dying...
I'm kicking back, with nothing to complain about, yet complaining.
While *children are dying
I'm dancing
to my favourite song with my pals and sisters.

While they bleed because of the blisters
caused by the wood of their broken homes.
Unheard screams and groans
Getting ***** by strange misters.
Bombs and grenades fall like raindrops from the sky

BOOM BOOM BOOM! The soundtrack of their lives
An endless lullaby
And they cry
and cry.
But I can't hear them,
for the music in my room is too loud.


                                    Children are dying*.

'Twas not normal,
To see children born without wings,
"O cruel sins!"
The brittle women sings.
Mother's hid their wingless children,
Tucked them away,
Ignored their wheezes from dusty, old corners,
Prayed to heaven for a growth spurt,
In the meanwhile,
Wondering how much it would hurt.
                                                           ­       -**Firefly

I'm scared of my imagination.

I hear, see and feel things I shouldn't.
It scares me.

You hear barking, I hear howling.
You hear chair scraping the ground, I hear screaming.
You hear snoring, I hear wailing.
You hear in between radio stations, I hear cackling.
You hear sliding, I hear snakes.
You hear buzzing, I hear a bomb ticking.
You hear church bells, I hear the call for death.
You hear chopping food, I hear execution.
You hear the waves, I hear the drowning of the unknown.

I can't stay in the dark,
It's what I imagine I fear for.
My heart runs for it's life,
But it's stuck in the same cage.
And it's walls are scraped,
With tally of the times it will never get out.

You hear a tap, I hear drowning.
And I am flowing with it. In it.

Shake my head away from the dreams?
It's not as easy as you think.
When they taunt you,
While you sleep,
You dream,
You eat,
Scream.
I do.

It's just a nightmare...
- No it's not.
It's real;
It's my imagination.

Telling me things it shouldn't,
Making me feel things I shouldn't.

The imagery is too much, I cannot see;
Blind.

The wails, howls and screams are getting louder;
Deaf.

I’ve run out of voice,
To speak, to express, to call for help;
Dumb.

They say your imagination cannot hurt you,
Yet I’m screaming, running away from it.
But I can't – it's stuck with me, 'till I die.
Die from the fear of myself?
I will.