Are a generation of retards
Growing up in opaque greenhouses
Personalized out of our own filthy little minds
I have been asked by big poets
To write in metaphors,
How do I make them understand
That my pain isn’t metaphorical?
I am afraid of stepping outside my room
Just as much as I am afraid of staying inside it.
I am a living heartbreak.
No, I am not writing this
Because I want to sound like a cool poet
Believe me, I am starting to get tired
Every time the sound of a bullet
Echoes through the walls of a city,
A village, through mountains that stand tall
And refuse to crumble into dust
With shame, with fear,
I wake up from my afternoon siesta
In a puddle of blood.
I have been asked to kill myself
Only thirteen times
Yes, I keep a count because
The day that number reaches twenty
I swear on my goddamned life
I’ll do it.
I wake up each morning. Wake up. I wake up seven times a week. Wake up. Have a cup of coffee. I wake up thirty times a month. Sometimes thirty-one. Have a cup of coffee.