Screaming through out the room
Everyone stands
Punches land with a boom
****** noses and hands
No one moves to help
They film the carnage
blood flows from one girls scalp
Screaming like a dying baby partridge

The birds crow a weeping melody, trees clean of leaves
the smoke chokes the atmosphere, until even us can't breathe
I look upon the weary skies, the ones that fell so far
If only could this one last time I could see the stars
But the babies are all silent, the snow is blood ash-grey
The language that once taught us has nothing else to say
They tell us "Sleep now, my child. Don't worry, it's not there"
They tell us "There's no monster under the bed, no need to be scared"
But they don't see what we all see, as the pin drops in deafening silence
Sure teh monster isn't under the bed, it hasn't been there since
The day that we all turned fifteen, we've long known it was here
Until the smoke cloaks our sight until even we can't see what is near
So the birds crow a weeping melody, trees clean of leaves
But at least the happy fools that brought us here think the air is clean
But everything is falling, as so does the weary skies
Holding our every breath, until even then it cannot help but cry

Open your lustful legs
do so when a man begs

Let them spit in your face
‘cause you should know your place

Make their violence portray their passion
since you are born to tolerate this aggression

You are nothing more than some holes
nothing to say, ‘cause it’s the man who controls

Be beautiful, be youthful, be skinny- be tight
Who else is going to show you love tonight?

You are nothing more than a temporary human incubator
“After 18, you expire”, says the ****- infused manipulator

Some of us are stuck in blue online vending machines
they pay girls posing like in pervert *******-zines

Once, I was this carefree and happy sweet little one
now I have to fight against the lust of someone’s son

On the bus, on the plane,
a child kicks the seat,
Loudly sings a half-song
on repeat.

Watch the adults wince,
the parents hiss under their breath,
their patience thinned to wire.

They stare harder at their safety cards,
at crossword clues,
at the blue glow of movies
they won’t remember.

This is the invitation-
Not the kind printed on cardstock,
but the kind that comes with grape jelly fingerprints,
with questions about the clouds,
with shoelaces that won’t stay tied.

Tell me more about that dragon.
That’s not a shadow, it’s a mountain.
What would you name the ocean
if “ocean” was taken?

When they cry,
que the jokes,
make a peanut packet talk-
and the aisle is lighter for it.

How could this not be better
than folding yourself into a seat,
guarding your stiff silence?

Soon they’re gone,
dragging backpacks like spare limbs,
wet-cheeked or grinning.

I sit in the quiet,
watching the passengers
already back to their closed faces.
The question stays:
how could that human response
not be better
when the world hands us
small, loud,
unrepeatable gifts-
and we hand them back unopened?

It’s so inspiring: to live.
To sense,
To hear,
To see life.

Nothing’s certain,
Nothing’s ordinary,
Nothing’s a fact
Though nothing’s a lie.

The world’s so different,
So incompatible
Yet all of it moves on
Together.

And in every bit of that ‘together’,
There’s something to learn,
Something to feel,
Something to love.

Remember, we live in a universe that doesn’t.  repeat itself.
You cannot be identical to anyone else.
So sharpen your gaze just a bit more
To see what really makes us us.

Riding the subway
I realize there are so many people
so many people, really
I wonder if all of them
are okay

We think we're saving us.
Saving humanity
through
technology.
Convenience we think,
is of utmost importance.
And through that very convenience,
we lose ourselves.
True intelligence
in trade for
the artificial.
The greatest feats of humanity
imitated in mere seconds.
Art.
Literature,
Paintings,
Expression,
All consumed
by the raging desire
for convenience.
How much further must we fall
before realization
strikes the tree of ignorance,
revealing its roots
that bleed with the ink of true creativity?

Real people smile,
Real people bleed.
Reality is held by physicality,
And philosophical pillars.
You may smile,
But if you smile without knowing what it’s like to bleed,
Somebody will come show you.
It’s humanity,
In retrospect,
It’s human illness.
We wish to see others struggle when we struggle,
But when we are not struggling,
Then there is a disgust placed with the struggling.
For if you know what it’s like to bleed,
Yet, not what it’s like to smile,
You will long to draw blood,
From the smiling.