Day of Silence

This is part of a poem I wrote the morning we left for Chicago. I thought it appropriate to share today:

...

and life is a series of easy defeats
that people deny with their subtle conceit,
'cause this illusion is quiet,
this illusion's discreet,
and if there were truth
then we'd still choose deceit

...

and the best we can do
is just to charge on,
without hope for glory,
expectations gone,
and if there is hope, then it's in the dawn,
and if there is hope, then it's in our lawn—
that small patch of land that we all dismissed
'cause the lure of the tv's too much to resist,
and we forget how to speak but we memorize lists
of shows that display all these guns, all these fists,
and we'll watch people killed, we'll watch people die,
without making a grimace or blinking an eye.
and somewhere in this mess we forgot how to cry,
but we learned to not eat, to make ourselves thin,
and we learned how to dress, to look just like them,
because the most important thing is for us to fit in.
the most important thing is for us to give in.

...

and I always wonder why they choose this fear,
why they fight the love that could save us here,
why they force us to silence,
why they smother our voice,
why they call it a sin,
why they call it a choice.
and this silence?
it's violence.
and this hate crime must end,
'cause more people will break
if others won't bend.

and i have seen people pushed over the top,
and this silence must end,
and this violence must stop,
'cause my friend, she is giving
the pulse of her wrist
to the people whose hatred
will never desist,
and if they saw her scars,
they wouldn't ask why,
because life is easier when life is a lie.


...

and you say god is love,
and you drop to your knees,
and you ask what you want,
and you say pretty please,
but you neglect with willful ease
that queer is a lifestyle and not a disease.
and the hatred you preach
from the pulpit, your sin,
is beading blood on delicate skin
that's not thick enough, no, it's too thin,
and the raised lines that criss-cross
her once-young breasts
aren't there to offend, aren't there to protest:
they're her favourite secret, kept close to her chest,
and the ones who know it—
they know her best.

...


I have so much to say about this day. But that is all for now.