Koan

Next,next...and up goes the volume.
It is known that in 1862 Honest Abe
Freed the blacks
Did this declaration of so called freedom ring true?
I believe it did not, so listen as I tell you
The segregation and the separation can not end,
Will not end
As long as we tend
To fuel it.
Look around at the disconnected souls
Treading quickly from place to place
Upon their soles.
And a glance at their face,what's to be found?
A circular device in their ear, emitting sound.
The sound that for some silences,
And for others speaks
The sound that makes us deaf to others' needs.
We stick with ourselves.
The attack on Iraq and the plea to fall back.
Ignored.
A man, just one can run the world.
The rules of war state
A country destroyed is a country rebuilt
Another proclamation that proved to be false.

Constantly we seclude ourselves from each other
And turn around and call a total stranger brother
Embrace one another,
I ask you,
Discover someone
Uncover their pain, and share their happiness.
Emancipate yourself from the invisible barriers
And proclaim it to the world.

'I'm ready for a change',I said
As I cleaned off my room and undressed my bed
'Time for something new, although it will he hard'
So as I prepare, I'll just play the denial card..

'It'll be fine, everything will be alright.'
I told myself on my last night..
With my friends and family, and all I grew up with
And seeing my same old friends, not having to change anything

But...change makes you feel...different of course,
Whether or not it's for better or for worse.
I now think that I'm ready to go home
And in that...I think I am alone

I'm ready to play kickball until the street lights come on
And stay out at night until all my blood is gone
From the mosquitoes constantly biting my skin,
As I, as quickly as possible, pull my arms in..
My shirt.

I'm ready to go outside in the winter and have the sun shine in my face,
It was one feeling that for nothing,would I willingly replace
And tear open gifts on Christmas day
Only to rush outside in a t-shirt and jeans afterward,the Florida way

I'm ready for the salty smell of the water at the beach
That on any kind of day, hot or cold, is the best kind of treat
Running quickly, as my sandals flick sand into my eyes
And laughing at people who burn their bare feet's piercing cries

I'm ready to return to what I knew
I'm unprepared for anything new
And the only thing I can hope is that
I'm not the only one who wants me to go back.

She must have been...19? In the prime of her life.
Too old to be a high school sweetheart and too young to be a wife
And she had to face the world with one of the worst scars
Not just the bruise around her eye, but the one that alters who you are.

The scar that was inflicted by another human being,
Was radiating pain so common, yet so commonly UNSEEN.
I met this woman early in the morning on the bus
And what follows is the dialogue between the both of us:

"Excuse me, but I don't know if you could see,
That the painful look upon your face deeply worries me
And I know it's not my place to ask you why or when,"
But in reference to the bruise on her face I said,
"I'd like to know what happened then."

She turned and said 'Well I appreciate your concern,
And from this bruise there's certainly one thing that I've learned,
It's that I am a poor judge of character and now I know why,
I was terribly wrong in thinking that I had found a good guy.'

'You see, he comes home late every night drunk out of his mind,
And interrupts the peace when I try to unwind,
He brings home his idiot buds from the bar
And drives my seventeenth birthday gift because he doesn't have a car.
I don't think you know how much it hurts
To be with someone that continuously treats you like dirt,
And sometimes to him, me having feelings is a thought TOO unreal
And the last thing on his mind is the way that I feel.
Sometimes when he feels that I don't do something right,
We end up getting into these long, painful fights
And he has absolutely no qualms about raising his hand
And using it to strike me and reinforce his demands.
He expects three meals to await him everyday and
Lord knows that I really don't want to stay.
But I'm so afraid that if I just try to leave that...
That he just might try and find me.'

I replied, "Well I think I know what you should do,
Help him to understand what and who a real man is:
A real man is the one that can cook FOR you
And a real man will help with the laundry too
And a real man is the one who fixes YOUR car and makes sure that it's more 'pimped out' than his by FAR.
A real man is the one who defies the stereotype
And always makes you feel much more than alright,
A real man will always know what to say and do and
A real man will always want you for you.
A real man unclogs toilets and fixes sinks
And every winter morning makes you something hot to drink,
A REAL man is the one whose primary concern
Is providing for you the one thing that you certainly deserve: Love."

Day 1.
You're in my class.
I give a polite 'hi' and you return the favor with a smile.
1 point.
Each day after that I can't get over the fact that
I.Just.Can't.Stop.Thinking.About.Someone.
The bell rings and like everyday I head to my locker but...On the way,
You're there.
I swallow hard and I practice my speech
I observe the bystanders, who's in what seats
I straighten my hair and brush the lint off my clothes
And clean my glasses and sit them back on my nose.
"Hi"
With a glistening smile the small talk begins
But I can't concentrate, so I force a grin
Or I nod my head or say something dumb
And then I catch myself and I twiddle my thumbs.
Idiot.
As reality slaps me in the face
I'm finally set back into place in the conversation
I'm not sure why but I can't think straight
So I bite my fingernails, a habit I hate.
Finally it seems God has smiled upon me
And I cut you off mid-sentence,courageously.

Its 6 p.m. on Saturday and I'm sitting outside, texting random contacts
People walk in and out of the movies, ours starts in five
Suddenly your hand on my shoulder, 'hi'.

The sun gently rises above a proud eastern horizon
The rays of dawn shrouded by the smoke from a grenade..
One of the pawns in this lethal game being played
Is that of the vulnerable country, succumb to the sick masquerade
Of a land of more power, using blood rather than lemons
For their 'life's lemonade'

From direct invasion in the Nazi soldier style
To arming opposing factions in Rwanda, all the while
Destroying what these people hold closest to their hearts
Allowing them to be witness to family members being blown apart
Genocide is planned, systematic, and sequential
And to the psychological being, always detrimental
We as westerners have become to self-involved
And into selfishness has our independence evolved.

Mothers with young ones bound to their chest
Spend everyday searching for a safe place to rest
With rubble and debris strewn across their homeland,
Their countrymen losing fingers, arms, feet, and hands
Small children in torn clothes bloodied and bruised,
Fight with best friends and siblings over shelter and food
Tired, exhausted, and mentally decayed
The fabric of human capability is now worn and frayed
What are you to do when your country is lost
And continuously paying with lives...the ultimate cost.

Infants wander aimlessly with tears in their eyes
As unmoved soldiers silence their cries
This once everyday person, a human being
Now warped and twisted into a killing machine
An unstoppable force destroying people and homes
Trekking on, and ignoring that dying person's yelps and moans
As they are drained of their very life source
Joining the others'...leaked onto the floor.
Everyday is a struggle to survive,
Such is the twisted effect of genocide.

No bombs going off around our homes,
Or dealing with the sight of children walking alone
Some children as young as nine
Left in charge of the ones LUCKY enough not to be left behind
No parents, aunts, relatives. Where have they gone?
What we take for granted are the things for which they long
With hope and determination as their only shield
Why can we not provide them with a sword of assistance to wield?

Oppressive countries paint their pictures in blood
With their paintbrush of sorrow and their palette of death,
In order for us to directly oppose them, must we become the canvas?