A wise friend once told me that when I was helplessly devastated, I should write. This one's for him:
I emerged from the trenches,
Drenched in the blood of mine and my sisters'.
With wet mud dripping down my cracked face,
I watched as you broke our hearts while trying to win theirs.
This war began before we even had ways,
To record battles.
My great-grandmother probably recanted stories,
Just like generations before her did.
Soft whispers echoing loudly in history:
On cold kitchen floors, in front of temple doors.
Under a dim candlelight,
Praying to be hidden by the darks of the night.
So when I saw you,
Shaking hands with the enemy,
Forcing us to wave our white flags.
Forcing us to concede.
Before we made a dent,
Before we demanded for birthrights,
As you lost your self respect,
While selling ours for close to nothing.
We fought for you too,
We braved bullets, took flying daggers.
We ran with open wounds, climbed with broken limbs,
So you could fly.
Yet there you are.
Oblivious to aeons of progress,
To eras of little fights behind closed doors,
And massive speeches to an exodus.
When you embraced the other side's demeaning, ever-lasting flaws.
We were enraged.
When we hear your cackles of fake laughter,
A deafening silence looms our land.
Today as we mourn the loss,
Of the sisterhood that got us this far,
I wonder when your god-forsaken privilege,
And desperate thirst for approval from the opposite sex,
Will crumble, cripple and collapse.
When reality comes at blinding speeds.
Hitting your obnoxious cliques,
Shaking your worlds,
Making you realise:
This war was yours too.
YOU ARE READING
Unfinished Paintings
PoetryA collection of my prose, poetry and epiphanies over the past couple of years. I've always loved writing and composing, but I'd never assumed anything I wrote was worth being read by anyone but myself. Writing has always been a way for my mind to co...
