Messy Stuff

O hope with fickle wings, grow another stronger pair and come back again. A kid holds a tattered teddy bear -arm about to fall out, cotton peaking through the last two stitches that hold his arm in place- asks me about his sister. Says he’d give his only friend away to have his school back. The teddy does not cry, his buttons of eyes has long fallen out. Silky lies spill from my mouth, needles pricking my throat. Honey lies, because honey is what kids deserve (honey; hapiness, hope, help) lots of it. The teddy’s arm fall to the ground. Small Men don’t need teddy bears afterall.

O hope please come back, for the truth is uglier than the cruelest honey lies. Lies leave a sour taste on my tongue, while truths burn and scald. How about a bland taste as a start?

Burn this city, let the flames dance and cackle, flesh, more flesh; it sings, burn it and let the sea extinguish the heat, sea of rage. O sea of rage how your waves dance and crash to this sonnet of madness. Drown this city and its ugly laughter (its cries, sobs, tears.)

Burn this city that has burned your heart, bleeding tar on the concrete instead of sticky red (sickening red everywhere), feeding on the pain of said fickle thing: O fickle petty thing, do not despair, I’ll chew you up elegantly. Burn, burn this city up. Claw at your heart (before it claws at it), throw it away or put it in a jar; it isn’t needed in here. No one with a heart can survive this city. No one with dreams.

But it enjoys your fear and sweat because it’s not the sweet homeland it used to be (It’s not the sweet homeland everyone makes it to be) it’s too much crumbling buildings (under the weights of crumbling hearts) crushing crumbling hearts. The silence, the silence that follows (that lingers, that clings, that claws) is deafening. Screams pierce the sky but it’s still serene. Beautiful things can’t get tainted here. It already is. Has been since six years. Run run run; it whispers. It’s no use; it taunts.