Friday Nite Poetry: Nightmare Nursery


It is tiring sometimes, dealing with the hurt we inflict on each other. I have said it before, and I will say it again, I know way to many good people to give up hope, but sometimes, just sometimes, I am forced to wonder.

Nightmare Nursery

You are not a child of diaspora
left on the road
year after decade
after century
after millennium
your strength your weakness
as your ability to weather the storm
becomes proof that you have sown it
letting lose the weight of history on your neighbors
at least in their tiny  and frightened minds
and they crush you beneath it
holding you in reserve as their favorite target
when all else fails

You are not the child of occupation
fire and iron
raining down on you
from your sky
made an enemy
because the adults around you dared kick back
when it came time to be kicked out of their homes
the concrete shoring up your neighborhood
now a thick and deadly cloud to choke on
buried beneath the weight of others’ sins
as the people on the other side of the barrier
try to drown all the hurt visited upon them
in gallons of your blood

You are not a child of genocide
of broken promises
of hatred masking
as concerned friendship
so much stolen
your land and history and oh so much more
your grandfathers tongue ripped from your lips
as his murderers stuff theirs in your throat
entire cultures and faiths lost to so-called progress
kept as entertainment in front of the camera
or on the field as a champion and mascot
or held in reserve when they want to confess
a morbid absolution

You are not a child of bondage
ankles eaten raw
by cold shackles
then laid out naked
now dressed in gaudy orange
forced to walk an impossibly fine line
as they tell you to be them while being yourself
a role they wrote for you that never really changes
generation after worn down generation
they have such high expectations of you to pull it off
despite the fact that you are allowed no speaking part
they write a savage snarl of violence on your lips
and the irony kills

You are none of these things
and oh are you not grateful
spared the indignity
suffering just enough
to be special
your bright and shining soul special in His eyes
at least that is what you have to tell yourself
because you cannot be stupidly lucky
or the beneficiary of centuries of crime
no you lay that blame at their feet
because you have never developed the calluses
to walk that road


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