Meaning

Six Hundred Days

Each day, I think of the children:
Killed by shells, and bullets,
And missiles,
By hunger and sickness,
And by brutal blows.

They are the same.
Everywhere,
They are the same,

I think of all the victims, found
Face down, hands bound,
Crumpled in death.

They are the same.

They are the doctors who won't return to their patients.
They are the teachers who won't return to their classrooms.
They are the artists, musicians and writers
Who can no longer imagine a better future.

Each of them, a precious world
Stolen from humanity.

Where is their voice now?
Who will speak for them?
What use even are words against the
Immeasurable weight of this crime?

There is only one war,
And it never ends.
It moves from city to city.
From country to country,
Feeding on the innocent.

As we wait in silence
For someone to stop this madness.

Not a Genocide

It’s not a genocide, it's …

A dead hospital.

A refugee camp, where there is no refuge.

A safe zone where there is no safety.

A “warning shot” through the neck of an eight year old child.

A “terrorist command centre” where there's no one in command,
And where there aren't any terrorists,

Just little kids and their parents,
Hiding from the bombs.

Reaping Time

Another day, another dead journalist,
A hundred dead, six hundred dead,
How many is too many?

How many innocents
Does it take to move the bottom line?

What will we reap,
When the only seeds we sow,
Are high explosive warheads?

What gain is worth this price?
What profit is worth the soul of a nation?

Are we prepared for what the harvest will bring?

The Punchline

The Punchline was that he once said:
“Empathy is a made up New Age term
That does alot of damage.”

The Punchline was that he was standing under a sign
That said “prove me wrong.”

The Punchline was that his last words were “gang violence.”

The Punchline was when he said that
“Having an armed citizenry comes with a price.”

The Punchline was when another shooting happened
At a high school, one state over,
And it almost didn’t make the news.

The Punchline was when we found out both shooters
Were angry young white guys,
Not Immigrants, not Gangsters,
Not Trans People, not Communist Spies.

In my lifetime

In my lifetime,
The leaders of my birth country
Have fought a dozen wars
To liberate:

The oil
From the ground
Of a foreign nation;

The wealth
Of a dictator,
Mourned by no one;

The people
Oppressed by a tyrant
Who was armed by my government;

The women,
Subjugated by a different tyrant,
Who was armed by my government.

My beautiful country
Where we have no money for food,
Or healthcare,
Or housing,
But endless funds
For the tools of destruction.

Where we have no money for science,
Or education,
But can give a blank check
To any rich fool who is
Too big to fail.

Is it any wonder
That so many people have given up
On the dream of self government?

The greater wonder is that anyone
Still believes in it at all.

The fools.
The dreamers,
Who still hope for a better world.
Who can still imagine a future
Where liberation is not just
Another word for ownership.

What would this world be like without
People like them?

And what could this world be like,
If we were all like them;

If each of us were allowed
To dream again?

When can we start dreaming again?