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  Aug 2014 Rebecca Scull
Irate Watcher
1991

I realized
We were both born
in rotting soil,
plastic toys fed
by Arabia's oil.
Eyes closed,
ears behest
to broadcasts, we,
could NOT protest.

That was the beginning
of our mass destruction,
but cribs offsides,
we slept soundly,
thanking our stars,
proud to be Americans.

10 years dormant,
the lyrics laid,
enough to stick,
but their irony to fade.
Until grade school,
recess goaded,
as burning buildings
on our side exploded.
The imminent threat preloaded,
in airports we shed shoes,
forever coded.

The broadcast — our center
was the theorem
that planes, oil, and Arabs
risked everyone's freedom.
But when we raised hands,
to ask why, teachers said
hail red, blue,
and especially white.
We forgot our roots,
because the Ellis Island trip
was obviously cancelled.

So we read headlines,
instead of Orwell,
the day 911
called for a police state.
Trusted the government
and ****** Muslims,
the day turbans
meant hijacking planes.
Pledged allegiance
disguised as freedom,
the day war
was declared
on Saddam Insane.

Our flag revealed
a sham feeding flames,
angst-ridden
teenagers
we became.
With raised middle fingers,
instead of hands,
to Green Day lyrics,
**** Amuricans.

Because only idiots
press a red button twice,
when mass destruction is the price.
And only villains
make children orphans,
while victims drown
in New Orleans.
And only gluttons
eat caviar with silver spoons,
tainting forever
a nation's youth.

Entrenched in dunes,
we boarded blind,
to debt,
death, and
jaded minds.
Blamed by perpetrators
in dollars and change,
for a guerrilla war
fought in vain!
Voted Obama,
with Osama slain,
and soldiers withdrawn,
we hoped for change.
PLEASE, we cried,
JUST STOP!
We are CHAINED —
to a bulldozer
that has NO BRAKES!



So the broadcast said recently:
We are losing control
of the Middle East. And
Al-Qaeda is far from weak —
ISIS: THE PHOENIX OF HUMAN GREED,
We just turned off our TV's
and looked up,
the kids who gave up,
thanked Musk — our atlas,
not yet shrugged,
whose vessels of stars
will rocket toward Mars,
from this godforsaken
civilization
built on hate.

And when you tell me, ***,
"We were both born in 1991,"
I can only sigh,
and breath sympathy,
for our dark history.
Thank you Justin for inspiring this poem. I am performing it next Tuesday at Da Poetry Lounge in LA so any feedback is appreciated :)
Rebecca Scull Aug 2014
There are none.

Just be yourself, that's inadequate enough.

I give lessons.
Rebecca Scull Aug 2014
Depression, anxiety
and everything in between
these are the things that trouble me
these are the things that burden me
these are the things that destroy me

I've always avoided asking for help.

The thought that I might have to ask somebody for help...
it made me feel lesser,
it made me feel weaker,
it made me feel stupid.

I mean how can a human being who is supposed to be so smart,
need help with something?

at least that's what I've always told myself.
I've always told myself that if I needed help I didn't do it right,
I didn't listen well enough,
I didn't try hard enough.
I didn't try.

If I need help, I shouldn't bother asking.
Because you can't fix broken.

But today, I realized something else.

I'm not afraid of asking for help.
Sure, I can take advice and I can listen well,
and I can get good grades and I can work real hard.

I go to therapy every week.
I always think that it's helping.

But then I have a breakdown again. And it breaks me down.
I have to scream, I can't breathe, I have to cry, I have to sob.
I feel like my insides are being ripped out.
I feel like there's a demon inside me
that is constantly trying to get out.
That's what my panic attacks and anxiety attacks are like.

But every week, I go to my therapist and I tell him I'm doing fine.

Because he asked me how I'm doing, and I'm doing fine.

But I am not fine.


I think I'm so afraid
of asking for help,

*because what if you can't help me?
you can't help me.
Rebecca Scull Jul 2014
Can you feel the pain that radiates from me?

Can you feel the hurt that cripples me, makes me unable to breath?

Can you feel me in despair?

Can you feel?
Rebecca Scull Jun 2014
there's so much to tell, so much that is rushing through my mind.
but I can't do it, can't say it on the line.

these past three days have been hell and back,
have been my own personal heart attack
and there is so much to write.

But I can't write it all now,
I can't put it all down,
I have to go over it a hundred times
before I can make these words rhyme.

Soon, though.
Soon the words will rhyme in my mind.
Rebecca Scull Jun 2014
If loving me will **** you,
It's okay to lie.
But if all it does is hurt you,
Why don't you give it a try?

I can help you heal those wounds,
I can put my hand on your burns,
And I can hold you if you cry.

But loneliness will not hold you,
It cannot heal you
It cannot feel you.

Loneliness can not feel the pulsing
Of your the blood beneath your burn,
But it can strangle you trying to.

If loving you will **** me,
I'll gladly see it through.
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