LENA ALYAAN

author ~ poet ~ comic artist

 

The World Will Never be The Same

 

They aren’t just numbers, but even the numbers burn.

They tell stories of depravity to point of no return.

Of killing children and women and grandpas and dames,

And blaming resistance for misfired aims.

It’s bullshit, it’s crazy, it drives me insane,

That such narratives are working when truth is so plain.

Two sides to every story, as the platitude goes,

But one side has bombs, the others’ corpses line rows.

 

 

How can I move on? How can I live?

How can I be content with the taxes I give?

How can I be proud of this great nation?

As is sentences Gaza to this degradation.

And what of Congo and what of Sudan?

So many lives in the palm of its hands,

That its treats with impunity as it fucks up their world.

While mine stays safe and decked in their gold.

Is that what it means to be American now?

Only free cuz of foreign lands that we plow?

 

I can buy my coffee and replace my phone.

Live in houses unthreatened by combat drones.

If I get killed with impunity, you’ll remember my name.

Because American lives are not worth the same.

Kill them, it’s okay, but kill me? That’s illegal.

All cause my passport has a fucking eagle.

 

I don’t want that eagle, it’s got blood on its claws.

As it soars above all international laws.

I don’t want to be free because others get killed.

Covering corpses with fancy resorts that it builds.

 

But why is it hard to leave it all behind?

To just quit my job, and book my flight.

Get out of a place built on the blood of my kin.

And lead a cleaner life devoid of its sin.

 

Yet how can I leave when I call this my home?

Maybe I can change it, wipe the blood off its throne.

 

 

I go to protests and scream my heart out,

Tell my friends about it and deal with the fallout.

Call my reps demanding a “ceasefire now”

Hoping it might make a difference somehow.

But I feel powerless, it’s pointless with no end in sight.

And the world keeps watching our Gaza’s plight.

Popcorn in hand, weekend shopping abound.

What new movies are coming to town.

Turn off the news, it’s depressing, we say,

And then go on about our happy old days.

 

I’m part of this problem, this is me as well,

I live my life free, while they go through this hell.

I feel guilty living here, so guilty to be blessed.

It’s guilt that burns me deep in my chest.

 

 

 

I am sorry, dear Gaza, I am sorry I’m here

Paying taxes to criminals and living my years.

I’m sorry my body can’t shield you from pain,

And guard you from bombings that constantly rain.

Wish I could do more than just pray in my home.

Wish I could do more than write a dumb poem.

Wish I could offer my bold guarantee,

That I’d manifest your freedom from river to sea.