Silent Screams

 

There's a woman

that I want

so very much to b,e

that I cannot be

because fate is strangling me.

Yes, fate is strangling me

and quite literally

as I live with a semi-broken neck,

as I live with these discs

collapsing, and swept

under the rug

is the need for treatment.

But in my country,

it’s dangerously

not available to me.


This is a big problem

that no one can see,

and all I want

Is to be free.

And I need to leave.


But without the money

to have this problem

relieved

I have to live on.

I have to breathe

as I pray

on my knees

that someday

I will be freed.


I need help but

they don't hear.

They don't hear 

my silent screams

as these slipping discs

crush my dreams.

How will I ever redeem

my life, to a capitalist machine

that wants what I cannot pay

in order to save me?


I am down on my knees,

hoping for those who can

to see me,

pleading for those who can

to hear me

before it is too late

and I will never be

and I'll never live free,

nor live at all, you see.


Unless they hear

my silent screams,

that's what's likely

to be.


Amid my screams,

I want so much to redeem,

and so I fight hard 

to not be thrown

under that machine.


But


maybe it is useless,

and maybe my labor

while chained

is fruitless,

because all they seem to see

is how I look to be,

focused on,

"Oh, she's so pretty,"

and not the inside,

not the truth,

the nitty gritty.

I don’t want pity,

but I want them to know

I am suffering... 


and danger is present,

and in it, I'm a peasant,

unable to afford

the token to pass

onto the safe ground,

onto the green grass

with the right help at last...


When I've reached out, I've offered

my self-made art, as I can,

made while I've been living

in this war-torn land

that is my own damned body.


And it’s like unless I win the lottery,

this disease will

get the better of me.


And that is how

it comes to be

for so many

like me.


I know what I need,

but without the means,

I can't be freed.

So unless they hear me,

hear my music, hear my plea,

hear my silent screams,

I'll be

gone and incomplete,

under a barren tree

on this field so deep

with the fallen, from the reaping

of capitalism’s medicine-keeping.


I'm still alive and still fighting,

but cold and incomplete.

The soil is dry under my feet.

I need the agony to cease.

I need water and heat

to grow my seeds.

Sowing them will not feed

this life or these dreams.


Not unless they hear me...

Unless they hear

my silent screams.


Fall Air


It's cool and crisp.

The trees are going bare.

As it tightens the lungs,

pulls you into a lair,

evoked are the drums

of this the fall air,

Da dum, da dum ,

from your feet

into bones,

into joints.

Beware.

If you fight it,

if you dare,

it'll fight back.

It doesn't care

with the cool, damp breeze

killing all the buzzing bees,

creeping into aching knees

reeling, as you heed

survival of 

the fall air

indeed.


2021


Enjoy reading Purple Ashes In the Sky on Blogger and consider

supporting the book via purchase or donating to my Go Fund Me.

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