By now it's well past nine,
but all I do is part the blinds,
head spinning, hair awry,
messed up sheets, covers up high.
And my day disappears. In my bedroom
my house, while powerful
people make powerful choices,
powerful problems, as I
pour another coffee, blinking back haze,
a stupid teenage phase.

It's past nine and all I do is
blur another line. Overlook the
scope of what I know we can't escape.
Where affluence is influence,
privilege; potential. Fighting a frenzy
threatening my future.
I stare at my windows foggy glass
in a quiet room, inconsequential.
As numbers feed sinners
and a sinner's scent lingers.

My afternoon morning voice vocalises
prospects - don't expect experience
except where artists lay down
to die.
Should I go out and have a walk?
Should I shock my mind awake? Awake
away from mistakes - take away the
ache for a clean slate, for my state
is stained and tainted - tongue tied.

It's past nine. My school shoes
are worn through, but they're mine. I
pull the laces too tight, constricting;
grasping control where control
contributes only to collapse. Collapsing,
as they're wading through the
landfill to find a throne to
recline on, willing to
pile up any bodies that they need to
climb on. Tears freeze on my
cheeks into pearls. They sell
them as necklaces admist the peril
of a nation with drowning youth - no
fear, no thought - the truth.

They poison air with gases they
can't name, and breathe the last
lungful and avoid all blame as
the air is ****** out of
the wind. My window. Suffocate.

It's well past nine, should I get
up in the meantime?

Wind howling in my ears,
Sand slicing, biting, through my skin,
The faces plaguing my dreams of fear.
Their mouths all in a maniacal grin.

Pain flashing; arm burning;
Tumbling through the air.
An arm falling in my lap,
It's not mine but his.

My friend.
My driver.
The back I promised to watch.
The family man I know him to be.

No dont look at me that way!
Stop... please...
It's not my fault I survived.
It's not my fault you died.

No dont leave... please...
You're all I have left,
You're my last memory of him.
Stay... please...

The cracking of barrels,
Whizzing of bullets,
I'm sorry I have to go.
My other brothers need me.

You're eyes are already dead,
You're blood has run cold.
But they aren't gone yet,
Their blood is still warm.

A shot runs through my shoulder,
Strange voices coming from everywhere,
One saying to get back,
Another saying it's happening again...

What's happening?
What do you mean again?
Head hurting, splitting, painful.
Everything around me is fading...

No dont leave... please...
This is all I have left of them...
My friends who fell,
My brothers by creed not blood.

White lights, white clothe.
Strange voices speaking strange words.
A man in blue and white,
Red spatters of blood on his shirt.

It makes sense,
For now I see,
I was rescued.
One out of four.

I'm alive...
I survived...
It should've been them.
Why couldn't it have been them.

Sometimes,
I just fake it
Cause
It’s easier

Yes,
The test was hard
Even though,
I got a 98%

Yes,
He has a bad personality
Even though,
He’s been nothing less
Than polite
To me

Yes,
She’s so amazing at it
Even though,
I’m not too far behind

Yes,
Their relationship is going to fail
Even though,
I think it’s rude
To gossip
Behind their
Backs


These things...
And more,
It doesn’t
Change
Anything
Even if I explain
Will people even listen?
Care?

So...
I let it be
It’s             Easier
I mean,
Not when it directly hurts
Others
I do have a bottom line

But otherwise...
With shades of gray
Difficult,
To differentiate
Between
  Right
Wrong
  Good
Bad

...

I guess...
I’ll let it be

After all,
It’s


Easier?

She handpicked the hearts as fruit
And  never said whom she would choose
But  torn they were from their vines
Oblivious to their use
In making finest timeless wine

And only history would know
This taste that would endure the flow
Of time, of memory, and mortal minds,
One destiny, herself, designed

Silence locks you in a room full of darkness,
blinding you from the nightmare outside.
It pulls the trigger on the gun,
while vowing it’s okay because you didn’t load it.
It watches as the world burns around the unfortunate
while claiming you didn’t strike the match.

It is too late in the evening to continue to stay
in the shackles of this silence.
The sun is setting, and you can no longer
ignore the irreversible night that threatens
to drown us in its pressing darkness.
We must allow ourselves to shatter its silence.