I never mean to be that guy,
But every time a friend uses another friend's Facebook,
The go-to gag will be a status saying "I'm gay," with
Eyeroll emoticons and LOLs promptly following.
Giggles and pointed fingers echo off the walls and
Into the ears of the suffering silent.

Those two words used as punchlines are the heirs,
The progeny of a past bathed in blood.
They are words weighted down by chains linked with laughs
And locked by the smiles and eyerolls.
The free ones revel in the fire baptismal they impress upon
Those left chained to the wall in the shadows.

Like children, they delight in the minor sting of the fireball that destroys those they mock.
Eyes sparkle and smiles flash at the fictional thrill that entertains them and murders the ones who dare to speak.
Their drums beat as the celebrate the chic
Game they get to play--playing Chicken with a train that isn't there
While others are strapped to the tracks by their shadows,
The darkside of the dance.

Songs and howls fill the skies and mix with the screams of the tortured to put the icing on
Their twisted fandango--a brilliant spectacle to distract from the cries for help;
A spectacle as brilliant as the screens of their phones as they type the jokes stained with sadness:
"I'm gay LOL haxored," with the laughs following
At the circus, while miles away a boy sobs into his sheets,
The cold stars his only company.

Sometimes it’s hard to breathe.
Sometimes the world closes in on your lungs like the
mountains need your breath and the ocean wants your soul.
Moonbeams of indefinite prosperity gleam down upon your skin like
a bridge made of children’s dreams.
They dance along your goosebumps, trying to calm your racing heart.
You cannot see,
you cannot hear.
All you know is the deceptively comforting pale, white walls of your world,
but you do not live in a world,
you live in a cage.
You have never closed your eyes and let yourself be
guided by the wind,
an everlasting pool of transparent anger trying to rule the world,
but never getting farther than vice president.
You will never know the deep blue waves crashing methodically onto the shore,
howling and groaning their way through a job that they will never finish.

Oceans can be selfish, you know.
They own 70% of the world and they’re still not satisfied.
Their deep blue rivers of fear snake their way under our skin and into our veins,
never content until we define ourselves by anxiety and pain.
Cages may hide us from the waves, but they also shield us from our own hidden hearts,
wallowing in the loneliness of pale, white walls with a transparent roof that yields
only to prosperity that is no longer indefinite.

O Madiba! Madiba your ship has finally come to rest
Rest now, now rest, for peace was your bequest.
Humiliated, disgraced, yet in captivity you chose
By embracing your enemy, you learnt and rose.
Insulted, assaulted, assaulting, at fault,
Lover, Soldier, for Justice, for God’s sake!
Stop work, break bread, water and salt
And follow in his wake. 

O Madiba! Tata Madiba you who have overcome
A true mandala spun, a Nelson who has won
Overcoming loneliness, cowardice and fear.
Bravery but a blindness brought on by all held dear.
Shame, defeated, blame, defeated, fame -
Let all come, let all shake,
Same blood, same, all the same,
And follow in his wake.

Its not that I am lazy
or even qualify as depressed, it is just
that everything tastes like cardboard
and I have forgotten how to cry.

Maybe you can forget to see in color,
and resign to politically correct,
where grey is the new black and white
and contrast was killed in the womb.

Society does have a thing
against the dead coming back to life,
or do they despise those they've buried reaching toward the light
I never got the story straight.

Even if its weird, I wish I had an outside
with a sun just of my own
so I can fight to give it's light to people that I like
instead of  having to pretend that everyone is perfect.

Maybe its that humans tend to go crazy
if there is no hero to their villain,
and the survival instinct could just disappear
if nothing tries to **** you.

I wouldn't say I am tired of living,
but I may be bored of being dead.

I like crying
Because I'm not allowed to
But since I'm not allowed
I
Can't.

Since you said
That crying isn't good
I physically can't do it
Even when  need to
Even when I have to
Even when I want to

And when I do
I burst
Every feeling that was trapped
Explodes in rage
And they come out all at once

I don't try to hide the pain
Trust me
I want to let it out
I like the feeling
Of drowning in my own thoughts

When I was a child
I sat in my closet
And wrote in the diary
As each word was written
I flew farther and farther away

At that point
I only wrote when I cried
So I could let my tears
Fall on the pages
To 'prove' my sadness

I liked-
rephrase.
I like being sad
It could be because
It reminds me that I'm still alive

I still picture her
When she came in
She dragged me out of the closet
And sat me on my bed
My uncomfortable bed

She snatched my book
Skimmed through the pages
And pointed at the smudges
They messed up the words
Plus they were circled with black ink

So I gave a simple answer
"Those are my tears"
I glanced at my book
In her clammy hands
"I circled them to remember the pain"

Hugs
Are supposed to be nice, right?
Well I hated her hugs
They were rare
But I didn't miss them anyway

She softly said
"Aweee"
Then walked out
So I went back into my closet
Where I can sit in darkness

She left my diary on a shelf
And I haven't touched it since
But I always remember the circled tears
And when she sat in awe
Adoring my sadness

She made me believe,
That sadness is loved.