Never ask a poet what they think about the things that matter. They will not give a definite answer for their hearts tend to ache somewhat too severely and even then some things are better left unsaid unfinished in a black and white world where any shade of grey is a crime somewhere over the rainbow in a place where it is the safest to not be there at all or else you are certainly the one to blame even if the lace is buried deep within your overwhelming guilt and shame hidden under all the what ifs and pleats and somewhere deeper yet there is the quietest of voices too afraid to speak of the bruises left on the inside of her thighs and within her heart the voice of reason that tells you please don’t walk down that alley keep your friends close and the keys in your hand closer keep your head up high and your hopes down low or whatever else makes sense in this dog eat dog world where everything you will ever know will be shredded and recycled oh, if only to be crushed into a pulp and spoon-fed to another generation diluted with careful consideration into a day-in day-out nine to five not even a cog in the machine a ***** at best and you will be ******* tightened up more and more until you can’t hold it together and whatever it takes falls apart into pieces broken glass on the asphalt a hole in the wall that sinking feeling where a soul should be but the angels don’t visit anymore or answer our prayers the line is always busy there is always something else something more important a bullet in the bible escalating into emergency but who is out there for the unarmed boy dying on the sidewalk misjudged for the colour of his skin who is out there to stop the hand of a father suspended in mid-air with the children cowering at his feet who is out there for the American dream turning into a global nightmare who can tell the pending future staring down the barrel of the gun wondering which side you should be on and what of that which you call freedom only to trade it for martyrdom what of candour and justice and their antonymous nature what of the artists and the poets and everyone else that took a shot but didn’t even come close living in a daydream playing from the same broken record telling us that there is meaning and there is worth in the things we do except that from time to time the needle would skip distorting the vision and at times like these it’s the easiest to look away for every scratch on the surface of reality encourages you simply to pull the trigger
No. I will not, I refuse to let this get the best of me. The pen is a blade. I slit my wrist and pour my heart out onto the page instead. This is a sacrifice I am willing to make. I will tear myself apart on my own terms. If I cannot do it myself, who else will?
My most recent poem for my university class, inspired by the likes of Baraka and Ginsberg. Prompt given to us was "protest poetry".