I’ve always been selfish.
Maybe that’s why this poem is about me.
I start my sentences with “I”,
Subconsciously gaining sympathy
From those, who don’t know me
Or my family in fact.
Who ran from weapons and blood.
It seems like the Devil himself made a pact with our God,
Making him walk away from our home.
But I am the problem.
I am the center of the world full of people, who mourn.
Mourn their children and lives.
Now sparks in their eyes are just a reflection of shooting.
Their mind, body, and soul are starving,
Being teased by memories of peace.
But I am too lucky.
I am the one who has keys.
Keys to a home with love,
Since being loved is all I need.
Just like an infant surrounded by faces of doctors
I’m begging for justice from strangers.
Yelling at the sky to hear my wish,
My desire to stop this world for a second
And save it from cruelty.
A thing created by life,
Since death is so liberating.
It sets free those who are too young for this kind of freedom.
I am waiting till my train arrives.
Patiently, carefully.
Just watching.
In crimson streets,
Gnawing,
I see straining
Building up indignantly.
This succulent feeling punishes me.
An amour I desired so quickly and jaunty
Abandoned me.
A sinister wait.
Oh, how long I have waited already...
It might be an evasion of life
To absorb all of us with no guilt.
We are waiting for trains, counting days, every night. Till the tracks that part ways sign an armistice.
They say “This is your life, live it now”.
I can’t live.
I can’t breathe.
I am waiting till my train arrives.
Where my people survive fluctuation in speed Of the vehicle letting them drown.
Just watching them breaking their voices Gets my spirit down.
How can I raise my hands in the air? How do I elicit old me that is gone? With a succulent felling.
I’ll stay here... Till my wait is done.
“Don’t worry, child, it all will pass.
You’re just too young, it goes away with age”.
What goes away?
All the furtive battles inside me?
All the trials I know I can’t handle?
Will my way go away?
The road I settled on paper.
It stays true to me.
I have always gone through every heartache I met.
You say it will pass. All the bad.
But will the good stay?
Maybe my spirit will go away,
Leaving my flesh, to which I stay true.
Just like my fresh ridiculous dreams,
And my passionate love, for which I fought fearlessly.
Will that pass too?
Will my carelessness turn into salt on my lips?
Will my opinion melt under the sun of society?
Will my fighting for happiness turn into numerous scripts?
Will I stay or will I break under the weight of pure cruelty?
