Poetry

I. The Hare 

The hare can bound and sprint and leap, 

Without much effort, rewards will reap. 

The hare can brag and flaunt and rule, 

It goes like this, as it is the truth,

but we snap our mouths shut as people smile and agree,

Good riddance the crowd says, while we don’t speak a word.

Four more months till the lines of work-

The coding of my life in word form-

Molds into a steel cage.

The cage's walls lined with a maze of puzzles,

Answers tucked between my ears.

Is it a bad idea to cry?

To cry at the sign of light's fleeting moments?

They end as soon as you wipe them away,

fogginess spilling in a soliciting manner over

To solitude's arena.

The matches that burn,

It's hard to find a balance

Between continuity

And the every growing weight that

Tirelessly

Chips the paint away.

Wait–no,

They say 

America was raised 

By our founding fathers 

And I'm sure it was 

But what about it's mothers 

A vehicle of travel that’s exhaust

Is exhausting to clean up.

To scrub from my floors,

My hills,

My caves.

It is a challenge no one has attempted

I listen to each word of my country,

Each act that fights to get rid of everyone I care for.

Each word that our government cleverly boasts

About how they belong to us.

How can I love

Those who creep through the dark

With their cloak of painful truths?

Their intentions were not love,

And only skitter away

So we can shoot

But we can’t harm

While all they do is shoot us down?

With their shackles,

Their laws,

Their money

All I can do is sit

and watch

and wait

as they purchase me

as I am loaded into the back of a car

as I am unloaded from the car

as I am brought into their house

For the first twelve years of my life,
There was no direct purpose in existing.
But then—
on the night of my thirteenth,
butterfly wings sprouted
from my back.

I got my own garden to tend.