Life Itself

Disheveled, dirty unkempt, unclean. A smirk that covers everything seen Notorious sad movements hiding innocent dreams Cut, bruised hands behind pocket seams. Eight, nine maybe, experiences deceive and observing minds perceive -E ighteen. A child actor On an old broken stage With shimmering ways and eyes that assuage He understands yet pretends to remain just a little child smiling while the innocence stays.

Where’s the remedy Where’s the cure Where’s the answer Who made you so unsure Where’s the conviction Where’s the reason Where’s the honesty Who brought in this treason Where is safe Where is home Where is protection Who left you this alone Where’s the hope Where’s the light Where’s the trust Who will make it alright Who am I Who are you Where are we Who will know?

You are my secret, dark, twisted and leashed. You are my horror kept inside, unseen. I shooed my thoughts, burnt the malady. I deafened my senses blinded my dreams. Then The radio-silence The tortured screams The clandestine pain The aghast belief. Erased? Maybe, will never be.

I am an idea sown in unrest I am an ambition surreptitiously kept I am a movement unheard, unfelt I am a rebellion precariously held I am a question loud and blunt I am a silence forced and abrupt.