Cluttered.

Reaching for a light switch as it 

transforms into a ferocious beast, 

words fly from my chaotic mind,

at record speed, then slip out 

from between artificial teeth.

I boil water in egg yolk, 

then eat a banana peel, 

put my pants on backwards, 

and fail to separate what's fake 

from what I once knew to be real. 

Elvis wails as Ella croons

inside my head, the whole day through,

and I sit, confused about the way 

that Billie Holiday could somehow

sing the colour blues.

Horns outside my window transport

me back to safari elephants,

as I become convinced that they've

returned to give me a taste

of my own medicine.

In my return to innocence,

where everything old is new,

I stop to smell the flour,

for life is far too short to spend 

each day retightening loose screws.

Arachne.

Carrying her sorrows in silken sac,

unwavering whilst weaving wildly.

Under a sombre sun, or callous cloud,

she spits, and hisses;

feeling jilted.

Centuries since she's 

been hopeful;

eight eyes, wide open, 

filled with wonder.

Mourning every almost happy ending,

crushed as she counts 

one less blessing .

Scarlet letters sealed 

her fate as a spinster,

wrongfully accused 

of eating men for dinner.

Society classified her as 

a sinner,

once jade, emerald, 

but now black widow.

So she spun her salience armed for battle;

no army could have anticipated her arrival.

Adorned in a coat made of her ex-lovers.

Hell hath no fury like the venom inside her.

World War U.

As I stare into the end of the bayonet,
my grief enfolds me, disheartened that I have sunk so low.
Saddened to have finally reached the end of the line,

my last breath catches in my throat
as I prepare to go home.
The images of my life arrive, like clichés,

to flash before my eyes; I watch unfazed,
and even through the happiness, all I see is failure.
I am immune to optimism, idealism failed me.
But seeing the reality of my world is what cured my insanity.
Accepting that I was not perfect painted my canvas with the brightest colours,
as I found myself in corners of the Earth I had only seen in magazines.
The selfishness of my final act is not lost on me,
even though, try as I may, there are loved ones who I cannot let go of.

Help Me.

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” Mr. Rogers’ popular quote has perhaps never been more relevant than it is right now, in these times of upheaval.  It resurfaces after every inexplicable atrocity, repeated and shared until we are convinced that we can retain our faith in humanity.  Recently, it has become a mantra for me, providing a fleeting moment of hope in between the merciless chaos and despair.

Currently, it seems as if the whole world is involved in an elaborate scheme to keep my heart and spirit broken.  The past few weeks have been particularly depressing, with one senseless act of violence preceding another, overlapping without a single second of peace in between.  It has become impossible to turn my head without encountering some form of injustice.  Whether it was the worst mass shooting in recent history that targeted the LGBT community in Orlando, bombings in Turkey, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia that killed Muslims during the holy month of Ramadan, deadly attacks in Bangladesh that occurred less than a week apart, the shootings of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, in Baton Rouge and Minnesota, or the retaliatory attack that killed five Law Enforcement Officers earlier today, in Dallas---it is undeniable that the ugliness on this planet has reached a fever pitch.

I am tired, hurt, devastated, angry, and deeply saddened, but mostly I am ready for change.  It is especially difficult to remain positive whilst simultaneously feeling helpless.  As a humanist, it is impossible to abstain from feeling vicarious pain;  it is even more challenging to stop myself from feeling emotionally, physically, and spiritually drained from the frequently debilitating empathy. 

It has always been my desire to leave the world a better place than it was when I found it.  It feels selfish of me to continue pretending that my own life is somehow more significant because of my blessings.  Although, the gates of oppression can only be unlocked by education and information, I cannot convince myself, in good conscience, that I am making a difference.  It is not merely enough to spread awareness; I need to feel like I am doing everything in my power to assist the less fortunate.  It is said that charity starts in the home, so that will be the beginning of my journey, and then from there I hope to spread love across the globe.

Grief is pointless unless it acts as a catalyst to help rewrite some of the saddest stories.  I refuse to be on the wrong side of history or these wars being fought against the innocent.  There is no better time than now for me to evolve from feeling helpless into being a helper.