Far from Heavenly Scented

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,

beyond demented

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.


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