My wrist hurts.  

I feel like there’s poison in it.
Like I need to bleed it out.  
But I don’t want my insides to show.  
I don’t want to be exposed to these strangers.

They won’t appreciate the depth of my wound.  They will only see the blood,  
They wont study the biology, the beauty, the physics.
They wont know me like I do.  Me and my alien blood.  
Foreign  body,
foreign spirit.  They wont hear it.
they can’t hear me crying out,
shouting,
screaming, “free me!
Perceive me! Hold me!”  
I just choke down a sob and die.  Too slowly.  
Promises undelivered.  
Restless ideals.
Restless desires.

Where there is nothing, I can see fire and warmth.
Where there is nothing, I can see peace and relief.
Where there is nothing, I can see fairness and equality.
Where there is nothing, I can see growth and Enlightenment.

But because where there is me, I can only see nothing… only nothing, anywhere else, will there ever be.

Pollyanna can do,
Sounds optimistic to you,
Idealism for me and you,
No  need to wake up blue,
Women are a capable crew,
Most stuff we're equal to,
Put on your positive thinking cap,
Pollyanna can do, that's that.

And…
The farms are
becoming housing
Developments.

Farewell
to the
Amber waves of grain.
How long
shall liberty still
rain?

Is the well
spring of opportunity
going to become
dry?
Will it
leave us
poor
wretches
to die?

Dear Columbia
I beg of thee
Do not turn
your glorious face from
me!

This is what the old heads say.
“You must learn you make your way!”
Broken memories of D-day
or the Mai Kong
haunting like spectres
or a beautiful
song.
Staccato maxims,
like bullets,
sing a ******
truth
as they pierce
the red-hot idealism
of
youth.

So do not forsake me,
dear Columbia.
I,
your broken son,
stand before you
blinded
by the future
you promised.
This night is
illuminated by those
burning Amber waves.

And…
the farms are
becoming housing
Developments.