Pain and no answers.
Try to live like worker bees,
all peace and blossoms?
Scrap poetry and leave
public expression to those who’ve felt
flames kiss their necks.
Try to emerge into blistering daylight
because it isn’t any safer inside.
Death isn’t reserved for those who take risks.
But if death is everywhere
it doesn’t matter if inside is a symbol of false security
or if the outside is a strange mixture of fast-paced public service and
a million other calls to arms,
it’s all the same if I don’t understand
the burning trees and insignificance of a thousand words
as the photographer makes headlines on the massacre
and the news never breaks my heart
like the vicarious loss of any trophy or medal
when honor is almost as
meaningless as
shame and now like any
word it is given its grave as justice is
just gavels and life is only
no. it’s about me
why I still need to control
hoping to make sense
