I wonder if they would find me.
Would it be rotting flesh?
Fresh? Or rather, bones?
Would my heart still be burning
Within my ribs— That monochrome?
Such is the fear that comes with voice.
I have a mouth— and I must scream,
So God as my witness I am going to.
I hope he cowers when I bang upon his door
Only to collapse upon its step.
It wouldn’t be your problem—
Would it?
Oh no, certainly not.
I’d just be another soul lost,
A necessary casualty of your “progress.”
Your selfish wants.
Your “selfless needs.”
I’d be a martyr.
I’d be a statistic.
But you wouldn’t care.
Oh no, certainly not.
You wouldn’t bat an eye—
Let alone shed a tear.
Why would you after all?
I’m nothing like you.
I’m only human,
Flesh, blood, bone.
Thought and will,
A voice—
One that I scarcely can call my own.
You wouldn’t have it any other way.
But no, of course not.
I would hate to rock your boat.
If you were to fall…
Heaven, hell, oblivion, whatever awaits forbid—
You might have to deal with the rabble below.
Those damned to cold waters,
Swimming and struggling,
Drowning.
If only you built more boats,
Or rather a larger one—
But what do I know?
I’m just a kid after all.
A kid who has gained and lost.
A kid who has stared at death
And contemplated stepping into His embrace.
“I’m tired,
Can we go home?”
A kid who has heard his father cry
In anguish— from the other room.
A kid who has seen his mother’s rage
First hand.
A kid who had lost.
A kid who was lost.
And I am certain I am not the only one:
But no one cares for those shot
Until they themselves
Are staring down the barrel.
Can you imagine?
What it must feel like?
Sitting afraid of the future,
Sitting, worried about what your family would think.
Only for a flash of light–
A flash of lead to render it null.
Imagine it–
Do it.
Imagine it–
Let the guilt tear you
Limb
From
Limb.
Imagine it.
Imagine living in a world,
Where children— children.
Young,
Scared,
Full of potential.
Have to sit in Schrödinger’s slaughter house—
Day in, day out.
Imagine being the parent
Who has to live with the pain, the guilt
Of knowing the garden you tended for years
Would never get to grow— to bear fruit.
Imagine being the person,
Who has to make that call.
Imagine being the person,
Who never gets to receive it.
Think of all the lives lost.
Think of all the love destroyed.
Think of all those fiery passions—
Snuffed out.
You don’t have to imagine–
Welcome to America.
“Land of the free,”
Ha! Don’t make me laugh–
There’s nothing to laugh about.
Your blindfolds read “liberty, freedom and justice for all.”
And your chains have never changed,
You never took them off—
You merely forgot they were there.
“Home of the brave,”
Largely led by those,
Who’ve never had to dirty their hands.
Those who stand atop pillars,
Carved and held by the poor,
The needy,
The forgotten.
What happens when they step away?
I wonder.
I am grateful for the life I lead.
Hard as times have been,
I know there are those who have it worse.
I have never had to sit in a bloody classroom.
I have never had to crawl over the bodies of friends and colleagues.
I have never been turned away,
Merely on the grounds of how I look.
Of how I act.
Of who I am.
I am lucky.
I shouldn’t be.
I hardly have a right to speak on this,
But God as my witness I will.
How long can they last?
How long will the philosophy of
“Time heals all wounds,”
Stand true?
Will time be enough to stop the bleeding?
Or will it simply stop once there is no blood left to lose?
How long can we last?
We’re supposed to be united.
We’re supposed to stick together.
Yet our very foundations
Are pitched to tear us apart.
How long before we do?
I hope not for a while.
I want to grow up.
I want to live.
I’m in love.
I’ll admit it.
I love a girl,
The loveliest I’ve ever seen.
I want a future,
With her.
I want a life,
With her.
I know for certain I am not the only one.
Who loves someone— something.
I love my home.
I want to love my home… truly, I do.
But it is so difficult,
When even the welcome mat
Is turning you away.
Time is in short supply,
Patience is running thin.
We only have so much time to tick away.
Before the wind stops,
And the flag flies no longer.
There’s much to do.
I want to live— don’t you?