DISCLAIMER: The following poem is written for poetic purposes; it does not reflect the true feelings of its writer.
It is a general assumption that birds fly;
I am a bird with no wings.
I am overestimated for my capacity and my potential,
and yet it is capacity and potential that I lack.
What they say doesn't fly are pigs.
Yet, the connotation of a pig is condescending:
Poor animals have done nothing but exist.
My inabilities dictate this:
I am a pig trapped in the body of a bird.
I am overestimated, expected to fly above all horizons.
"Nothing I can't do", but I of myself can do nothing.
I am a helium balloon buried underground.
I am a fish expected to climb a mountain.
I am a seed without soil and water.
I am a staircase leading nowhere.
A tree that bears no fruit.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
I woke up this morning at 7 o’clock... Many children in the world did not wake up at all today
Instead, they fell asleep to lullabies of bombs and gunfire,
The harmonic cries of mothers watching their children drown in their own blood.
A lullaby without a beat; the beating had come earlier in the day.
When I was 7 years old, I played with a baby doll and ran in the hallways from a friendly janitor.
Just an ocean away, 7 year olds run from the bloodthirsty soldiers,
Their dolls long since burnt in the flames with their blankets and pacifiers.
Not only robbed of their homes, but robbed of their innocence.
When I was 9 years old, I attained the lovely “gift of womanhood”; I was indifferent to it.
Thousands of young girls cry in despair on the sight of such a gift.
To them, this gift is a monthly curse, promising even more pain.
Clenching that, impossibly almost, extends past the clenching and churning of their empty stomachs.
At the age of 16, I graduated high school and thought that that made me a mature 16 year old.
I forget about the 16 year olds that work 11 hours a day to put food on the table.
I forget about the 16 year olds attempting to raise the 4 four children their parents had left behind.
I forget about the 16 year old beggars constantly being deprived of their birthright: happiness.
At the age of 26, I hope to have successfully graduated medical school, to be a wife.
Halfway across the globe, there are 26 year olds working day and night doing the dirty work,
For dehumanized masters set on dehumanizing their slaves, I mean servants.
And yet, these 26 year olds are considered lucky.
By the age of 30, I hope to kiss my child’s cheek before watching him run to his school’s gate.
Some 30 year olds are as helpless as bed-bound 97 year olds,
Helpless in privileging their children with the art of literacy,
Helpless in finding time amidst digging potting soil and digging graves to spend with their children before their energy drains.
By the age of 45, I pray to have a stable career and thriving health.
Sad as it is, and it really is, I have seen 45 year olds accumulating wealth, yes,
But from the change of people carrying bags upon bags of luxury at bazaars;
Wishing they had had their rightful luxury of an education.
By the age of 80, if I see it, I hope to be retired, sitting in the comfort of a cozy cottage like in the fairytales I would read to by grandchildren.
In countless places across the world, people are downright lucky to make it to eighty.
With filth and disease spreading like wildfire in the crowded rotting streets,
Their flames don’t only engulf the elderly, but extend to their young families, cutting their lives incredibly short.
After I die, I hope to leave a legacy, to be remembered.
Many people are not as hopeful as I; they have been forgotten long before death.
Saturday, March 21, 2015
The ones I love are nearsighted.
They see everything that is now in the finest detail,
the outstretched arms and wrinkles of aging trees,
the individual tears of the clouds, the very structure of each snowflake.
But they too are frozen.
They are frozen in the present and they freeze it.
They tell me “live in the moment”
but all I can do is look with my farsighted eyes
to the avalanches and hurricanes that the grey clouds have been warning us of.
The massive tsunamis of pain and grief that will surely wash away every life in their paths, leaving us all as caskets; representing an existence but holding nothing but lifelessness.
They will never see it coming.
Pain will toss grenades into our grounds from a distance.
Revenge will catapult boulders onto our heads.
Anger will light a match that will set fire to our entire forest in seconds.
They are so good at ignoring the big problems and blaming “carpe diem”.
They are so good at creating false hopes by examining one teardrop and assuming its of joy,
Instead of studying the face to find the lack thereof.
I, on the other hand, am plagued with blindness.
Things I hold between my very fingertips are nonexistent.
I can see nothing valuable until it is far far away.
Perhaps that explains why I love those that are so hard to get.
I throw a rope to the opposite end of a wide trench,
where my vision begins to clarify,my thoughts begin to solidify into what I perceive to be love.
Yet when someone finally takes hold of my rope, I am so scared of losing them that I pull,
Sending them plummeting into a dark abyss of indifference.
My worst fear.
Where my farsightedness fails me.
The tsunamis have attacked me from behind, and I could not look right before me to the shadows of the dominant wave creeping up above me.
It washes me away.
Leaves me like a casket.
Instead of studying the face to find the lack thereof.