At what cost?

Lately, as per usual, I indulge in the chaotic media. Bombings in Syria. Pulse. Manchester. A hung parliament. London attacks. Grenfall Tower. Race politics.

I wonder at what cost?

How many lives have to taken away for people to tap into their morale, for people to tap into their hearts and realise this isn’t right? Its always those lowest on the social ladder that feel the consequences of those above them.

Victims. We are all victims. Victims to the system and its values. Victims to the choice of others. Victims to the actions of those who deem themselves better, who seem to always go unscathed. Its funny how those who we put into positions of power don’t care about us or our wellbeing. You allowed a 27 floor tower, to have no smoke alarm, no sprinkler system, cheap plastic installed and never thought or cared enough to see how it will impact all the working class families living there. You allowed, loads of little girls and their family members into a concert when France is still playing in everyone’s mind. You allowed Transgender people to feel isolated and forced after what happened at Pulse. You allowed a transphobic, homophobic, sexist, racist billionaire to be President of one of the biggest western powers in the world. You allowed the unarmed killing of black bodies. You allowed the ageing population to determine the future. You allowed governments to drop bombs, killing thousands of Syrians. But the only murders that matter are those that are close, close enough to feel. Then cry, scream and shout ‘terrorist’ after you created them. I bet your thinking who is this ‘you’ you keep referring to… take a wild guess.

Do you know what creates a ‘terrorist’? Do you know? Its pain. Its suffering… its feeling as if their is no other choice. No one else understands how it feels to be so low, in a war ridden country, where your government doesn’t care and cannot stand up to western powers. They ransack your country, killing your family members with no remorse or concern for human life.

The worst part is the desensitization. Death is inevitable. But this, this is the wrong way to go. I wonder at what cost? at what cost? at what cost?

Horror Stories

a poem.

Was always so blind.

I didn’t comprehend…I didn’t see

That all I wanted and needed was right in front of me.

Waving, smiling, laughing, shouting , running, reaching

Fingertips nearly touching,

Hearts nearly close enough to perform a synchronise beat.

But eyes looking past,

Eyes wide,

Eyes blind,

All the things I couldn’t see.

I let them just walk right past while I focused on only me,

My dreams,

My aspirations,

Scared.

I can read you horror stories about being scared.

I can swim oceans,

jump off cliffs,

run for miles,

and it still wouldn’t be enough to tell you about the magnitude of fear.

Scared is when you realise your dad has left and your all alone

Scared is the crazy heart wrenching fear of the dark

All the things you don’t want to see, manifest and show themselves in the dark

Scared is blaming everyone but yourself

Scared is letting life pass you by

Scared is severing sacred connections.

Scared is almost saying ‘I do’

Scared is almost crying

Scared is almost showing emotion

Scared is almost saying ‘I like you too’

Scared is never moving

It’s never ending

It’s forever blind.

It’s forever losing.

It’s forever alone.

Writers Disease.

a poem.

recently I lost the will to write.

the words that once flowed like water,

no longer seem to flow from my mind.

I contemplated,

maybe this is the last ever time,

that I will be able to paint beautiful pictures with the words I write.

Is this disease curable, doctor?

Is there anyway to save me?

I feel like I’m going insane,

The words I try to write no longer translate,

my mind a black abyss the words just cant seem to escape

is there anyway to take this pain away?

I remember people asking why I write

In response I wrote a sea full of poems and stories

eyes blazing, pen scratching,

now I can no longer answer that question.

Why didn’t anyone tell me doctor?

this disease is more than my pen being unable to hit the paper

its more than my mind drawing up blanks

its more than the burning desire to rip every piece of paper to shreds

its being stuck in limbo,

its being stripped, naked with no where to hide,

help me. help me. help me.

why wont you help me?

you told me it would only last a week and now its a year and I still can’t seem to move this block.

I can’t seem destroy this block

this mental block

this disease.

I screamed. I screamed. I screamed.

and all he had to say to me and all he ever said was,

time.