Everyone’s sleepwalking through city square
It’s twelve fifty seven
And seventy families have bled black against Israel’s rockets

Come Sunday morning
The drunks in my hometown
Will be too hungover to recognise their own faces
While Palestinians across the world
Will have to sort through the bones of dead relatives

This country was built on colonial empathy
Freedom from suffering through self-absorbed apathy

We’re all sewn to our seats
Caring for nothing

She writes like the grim reaper
About pain, loss and tortured souls
Yet she has the sweetest smile
That could make a broken man whole

She writes about the lonely girl
Who cries for her broken heart
She says she's never been in love
For her, lying seems like an art

She has a quirky sense of humour
Her laugh is a sweet melody
She write about being lost and alone
Shes always surrounded by family

She writes about the child that cries
While his parents fight downstairs
She's lives such a happy life
With no sign of pain and despair

Sometimes when she speaks to me,
She seems so young and naive
Her poems carry such soul and depth
That they came from her is hard to believe

How can she understand my darkness
If she's never felt pain or desolation?
Why do her words ring true to me
When I know it's just her imagination?  

Her sad rhymes always make me cry
I just can't figure her out
Is there some sorrow that she hides deep?
Or does she just twist her words around?

Only the
past is set
in stone,
my friend.

You don't have
to continue
being the
person you
were
yesterday.

I could have sworn
your eyes were hazel
when you told me
you loved me,

I could have sworn
they were never this shade
of rich mahogany-
but maybe they have lost
their intircate flecks of green
like the leaves do in Autumn.

I suppose winter was inevitable.