this is for the people who want more,
because believe me, i know i do.
the ones who think the only spirits inside
them are the ones they bought at the liquor store.
this is for the ones who know that ghosts exist.
the people who have been cast out for things
that they never did. this is for the children
with parents in prison, with no one else to
impart any more wisdom than what it takes to stay
alive in a place like this. for next door neighbors who shout.
the kids at school who still get left behind.
this is for the gays, the preacher three towns over who
says that they belong in concentration camps.
for the dad’s that are too busy to play ball with their kids.
this is for the girls who believe that beauty is
a feeling hanging from a perfectly rounded nose
and think that it can be payed for with sex.
the girls who want to be just like miley cyrus.
this is for the unwed mothers.
for the people who can’t be on welfare
because what money they had was
used to buy drugs and booze.
for the scientists we’ve told are worthless.
this is for the people who live on boxed dinners.
this is for susan kLebold and lindsay lohan and
amy winehouse and tyler clementi.
the boys who want to grow up to hit home runs,
only to find out that their heroes used steroids.
this is for the muslim kids in the public school system.
for porn stars and the ones who stay up watching them.
for the people who eat and eat and eat or don’t eat at all.
the people who spew fucks and goddamns.
the victims and the perpetrators of gossip.
this is for the couples with prenuptial agreements.
for the people who think God can survive only in
the zOo of our bricks and steeples.
the people who only come on christmas and easter.
and this is for the one that wants to come,
but no one calls them to see if they need a ride.
i’m sorry that we have failed you.
i’m sorry that we have withheld our loVe
based on what you look like and where you’ve been.
i’m sorry that we hide in our pews.
i’m sorry that the only thing that you hear louder
than love is our condemnation.
i’m sorry that we’ve turned our televisions up
so we can’t hear you asking for help.
i’m sorry for our white picket fences that keep you out.
we pursue happiness, never minding that it comes
at the cost of our souls, we serve too many mastErs,
pleasuring ourselves into a trance because drowning
out the echos of your sorrow is easier than admitting
that we ever had a hand in your pain. maybe we’ll
pick up a piece of you on the sidewalk, but we’ll
quickly put it back down because we don’t want to
look into the mirror of your soul and see that
it looks like our own. my blood is littered with white flags,
the only ones i was ever loyal to, and i’ll wave them, even
though they have weak stomachs behind their sneers.
we jumped a loaded gun to judge you,
and none of us realized that we had it pointed at ourselves.
you say everything you needed to know about islam,
you learned in five minutes on september eleventh,
which i guess is like saying that everything you need to
know about me, you learn from people who picket
the funerals of soldiers who died defending their right
to hold up signs saying “God hates you.”
i wish they would learn to speak for themselves.
religion doesn’t kill people, friends, we do a good
enough job of killing on our own.
- dad: where did you hear "moon river?" that was your grandpa's kind of music.
- me: why does it surprise you that i would like "moon river?" i listen to that and the carpenters all day.
- dad: i don't know. i'm surprised you listen to frank sinatra, too.
- me: i don't know why it would surprise you. i'm like an 80 year old trapped in a 21 year old body.
- dad: exactly.
I don’t write everyday because I don’t like whining or flaunting. My first response to people who do so is annoyance. Believe me, I have just as many ups and downs as the next person, but I am perfectly fine with my introversion. I try to post things that inspire me — poems I’ve been moved to write, prayers, maybe a song I have stuck in my head. Just like everyone else, I have days and weeks, even, when I feel uninspired. I also have days and weeks when I feel like something I write is far more significant than it probably is in reality. I don’t write because I want to be popular, I write because I cannot escape the things inside me, whether they be joy or sorrow.