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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() Silent screams with a mouth shut tight, Flashing sirens wail with no light, Empty weeping, cheeks run dry, A raised hand in the absence of sky; I stretch out my fingers to the mobile of stars, Alas, my arms cannot travel that far. Pacing around my prison cell:
My journey’s cage and mind’s high hell, I spend the day with a face of stone, Surrounded by statues of mirrors alone. I sing with echoes a song of slow slumber As I close my eyes to whispers of thunder. Awake, I walk the rose garden’s paths, Pricking my finger on each thorn’s wrath, Testing to see which one hurts the least; Testing to see which one keeps the peace. In the garden, I weep, muffled by leaves. The roses, a maze, I’m desperate to leave. Hark! Oh audience that I keep at bay, The actor you watch plays a poor man’s play, Funded by doubts and a thought’s sick game-- Hark! Oh audience, tell me who's to blame: The one whose slammed doors opened room for fresh wars, Or the one whose sentence sent the heart for repentance. Judge, oh jurors, my plea for me: How far does the apple fall from the tree? With the shattered and broken shipped off for repair, And white flag mangled with copious wear, The mechanic’s work will never be done When he is my father and I, his son. Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
November 2023
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