Poetry

Is it still America?

The same freedom and liberty our founders fought for,

Now being stripped away by the murderers of our government?

Our Constitution, now no more than ink on paper;

Oh, but they’ll laugh at my blissfulness,

As if it’d affect them more than an ant would a herd.

Oh, to feel felonious for such innocence,

Caused by others—wasting their arrow on a valiant bird.

Dear sun,

Dear winds,

Dear world,

If you hear my plea, I ask of your help.

I’m losing my grip,

I’m falling,

There is so much poetry about oranges

And it makes sense

Because they are perfect for sharing

Because the act of peeling an orange

Some things are just instinct

like when I just ran to you

as soon as I saw you

and hugged you for -

oh yeah -

the first time

very very platonic of course

you're my big brother.

Your solo is like sun shining through the clouds in my heart

it's like a platonic ballad

it's like you are playing

through first loves

and forbidden loves

and grass in the summer

and crunchy chips

Everyday I fight a hidden fight.

you wouldn't know it.

I hide it,

At school, 

In class

at any moment I could breakdown in a fit of tears 

of pain

anger

because I have hearing loss.

Thus blows a wind,

Sharp as sand,

Cold as ice,

Hard as stone.

Thus blows a wind,

Softer than sheep,

Warm as the sun,

Smooth as slate.

The Bible ends the flood with hope 
Genesis 9:11,  never again by water 
But this afternoon, I learned 
God never promised about fire 

I hate that 
Icarus gets all the ink. 
His hubris penned down for eternity while 
His scorched flesh watched on. 

But never is it Daedalus. 
Daedalus, who waits. 
The waiting Daedalus. 

If we get scared, they have us in their pockets.

If we don't, all they have is blood.

And blood is not a weapon. 

 Calm is the wind,

 Never a dull blemish,

 Calloused into the land.

“Blunt the sword”,

 Cried the makers of peace,