I woke up, decidedly tired of the world.
Sullen, I dragged myself out of bed,
reaching for a glass of water
to soothe the rust in my mood.
Drawn by an addictive habit,
I swiftly slipped into my social feeds,
there a usual scroll became a graveyard:
Innocent children starved to death,
haggard old faces seeking humanitarian aid turned to ash
by airstrikes no one talks about,
and pregnant wombs ripped apart mid-breath.
Their mass killing is never condemned
by the greedy tyrants of our nations
nor the preachers of “all men are created equal.”
As though condemnation would corrode their embellished lies;
their death never mourned at memorial services
as though there’s a limit to how much we are allowed to mourn.
Shattered by a gripping sense of helplessness,
I tucked my outrage back in,
drifted to work,
and spent the day
teaching how to speak English
with perfect pronunciation.
Internally disoriented, I headed back home
where the silence was loud,
and the walls knew better than to ask questions.
Having consumed my share of liquid injustice,
I collapsed into the bed
like a hobo with drunken problems
and forgot why I was weary of the world.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Leon Wu on Unsplash