An old poem I found stuffed away in a journal–figured I might as well use it.
The paper stares blankly at me,
and I can’t find the words
to put my emotions in print.
There is so much sorrow
so much need for asking why:
Why all the dying, crying and screaming?
Why do the rivers run red like they’re bleeding?
Injustice is an euphuism;
there is so much pain
that the world refuses to see.
Hollywood shows glimpses of what it can,
but the truth is only imagined
in our “promise lands.”
For the truth is hidden
behind a curtain of lies.
Her face painted so thick
you cannot see the scars she hides.
Her tears turn into a thousand colors,
each a tribute to the thousands of lives that were severed.
It’s beyond sick,
that we can let an abstract thought
drag us from all that is heavenly scented,
and I’m convinced it will never end
For we are pathetically weak
and can’t stand up to our evil fiend.