A Perfect World, Blank Noises, (X), Alphabetical Bullets

A Perfect World.

A perfect world is a place where we can share our stories
Share our voices
Share our deepest, darkest secrets
A feeling of absolute democracy
Where we can explore our minds
Where we can contribute to life

A perfect world is a place where whispers are not heard
Commercials are not fast-forwarded
Songs are not skipped
Love is not betrayed
Minds are not closed
A perfect world is a place
Where we don’t hide behind masks
Hide behind tarnished rags
Hide behind insecure imperfections
Hide behind unmoral thoughts
Hide behind banished religion
Hide behind misguided truth
Hide behind ignorant self

Where we can read what we have not yet read
Think what we have not yet thought
Express what we feel and not face
Barriers.
To never be punished for the undone
Ret urn
From a war of terror
Live a life that is not
exiled

A perfect world is a place where we see no depression
See no famine in Kenya
See no illiterate children in India
See no black and white in America
See no guns and weapons in Iraq
See no blackened women in Afghanistan
See no armed children in Uganda
See no rape in Cambodia
See no motherless infants in China
See no homeless souls in New York City

No impure adolescence
No obese mothers and fathers
No criminal 15 year olds
No high school dropouts
No fists filled with pills
Why cant we envision a world where we
See no dollar signs in our eyes?
See no corrupt visions in our head?
See no tears bulging from within our stare?
See no war within our minds.

Will we see the day when people will recognize the difference between
Money and love
Torture and humanity
Greed and morality

A perfect world is a place
Where we shall grow
Seek
Help
Learn
Where we shall never fear
The loss
Never weep
Never think I
Never fear the outcome
The rejection
Never feel struggle
The promise
The ache
The life that might have been worth living

A
Perfect
World
is a debt free mind
filled
with a spark
waiting to be ignited.

Blank noises

I wake up this morning
And lament your everlasting footsteps
I didn’t rend your letter
I saved them
I felt the ink you used to speak of
The ink that wrote words of its own
I saw the slight curvaceous movement in your liquid words
I read the hidden words we would speak of in secrecy
The way you used to whisper it into my eternal ear
Our hysteria as we fell from our high stools
Your famous talk was thrilling
Our perpetual versions of what was pleasure and what was vixen
Never left me lonely

You took your time as you bathed me in your lies
Rinsing out my long uncut knots
Coloring my seemingly perfected white skin
And washing your devastating bloody hands all over my undamaged body

Your cosmic fingertips
Digging into my skull
And scrubbing my infected perception of love
Leaving it inflamed like a sin

I wasn’t your victim
I wasn’t your pet
I was a friend
I was a girl that was pricked by your contagious deception

(x)

The world isn’t black and white
It’s a liquid grey
spreading livelier with intensity
people await the (shadow) of right
and object the wrong.

There is a sub culture of humanity
Where it’s (ok) to be put in the middle
Its time to take a stand on perception
And not to take a sideline view from the bleachers
Or take a sideline view while we witness mass (carnage)
Is it (ok) to feel pride when its not called for?
To feel pride when your people accomplish
Whether its peace
Or (war)

Is it (ok) to be (ok) with a colossal amount of people wiped out into a sea of irrelevance?
When did we liberate the people
Or did we cut the mouths off of those unable to speak?
Did the Americans push the (Muslims) against the brick wall
Until they bled
Make them shake hands with (evil creators)
What we thought were (evil creators)
shadows of men in turbans holding AK 47’s
Was it not (ok) to leave them in a land of ignorant bliss
Was that wrong?
Was it?

Is it true that Americans trained the people we call (Al-Qaeda) today?
Supply them with guns
Let them sign the death warrants of their beloved
And hope to give them a real chance in a life they had not known
And never wanted to (know)

How long do you think that man cried when he found out his people would be shunned?
Would his voice shrill? Would it scream with antagonized scrutiny?
Are the (people) we stare at in the New York City subway system to blame?
Or are we?
Is it their legacy?
Their heritage?
What they (believe) in?

Is it (ok) to be angry?
For them to feel vengeance in an unknown foreign world that seems like such angelic bliss
Was it (wrong) to escape a life filled with brevity and unintentional murder?
The suppressed street cry coming from a young boy who lost his father to a life of hatred
Hatred filled with a prick of ‘brown’
(Muslim)
blood.
Sitting in a test tube
Being examined by the men who ripped his family asunder

Everything we’ve (done) has come back to us
Like the ant we innocently stepped on
Or the door we had not held open.
The arbitration of defense was prolonged, never coming (home).
What foul dust floated in the wake of this dream
Of a nation
Generation
Religion
Humanity

It seemed everlasting but disintegrated into the smoke sky so quickly
If we (shut) out eyes for a moment
And held a hand
Would we wake up to an azure sky
Painted with blue and white strokes?
A modest lament for our years lost into a (bottomless pit).
If we shut our eyes could we ever open them?
Or would our plead for forgiveness not be forgiven.
Would it be too late to say “i’m sorry”?
And kiss the forehead of a young girl whose eyes have been scared with massacre
And whose skin has been wounded and rough from the years of terrorist attacks against her (people).
From the ash that has buried itself deep beneath her pores.
For her to await the arrival of a (hope)
while we drink champagne and bath like kings
Ignoring their helpless hand.

Is it so fair for us to say we have it tough?
For us to stare down into a nation with crossed arms, baring ammunition?
Do we feel (pride) when we see a man who looks so alien to us
That we move down a seat
And clutch our wallet?

We speak about a (person) so unidentified from us
We expect them to be holding bombs in their suspected black bag
Instead of a Christmas present for a daughter who hasn’t been seen in months
(Ignorance) is not (innocence)
Stand up for what is wrong
Stand up for what is right

We are a tired tyrant, trying to (suffocate) a breathing will from the people
We are endangering a species no longer vivid and prosperous in its habitat

Does (Allah) shine as bright as (God)?
Or does he kiss the feet of those who are against his people?
Is it (ok) to beguile a life filled with prayers where devoted men and women plea to see their (God).
Who seems distant, so recently.

Everything that was seemingly (ours) started to slip away
Through our swollen fingers
Blooded fingertips
Our rough, red knuckles have marks of blood trailing our every movement.
No longer were we righteous and dignified
We were awaking a plausible decision to keep (fighting)

This shift made us nibble at the edge of stale ideas
as if his sturdy physical egoism no longer nourished his perplexing heart.
We just painted an insolent (smile) turned to the world,
Waving to the sky
Winking at the ocean
And giggling at the universe.
But lets not feign,
We were desperately holding onto a world at which we’ve (never) had.
Clasping the earth so tight
Closing in any unperpetuated deceivers willing to speak out
You claim to speak about the 1st amendment?
Like we even understand what it means
Like it hasn’t fallen out from beneath the fray.
Its (silence)
Its duck tape smothering testimonial lips
The (red) smudges reappear.

What’s happening to (US)?
There must have been moments even after a glimpse
where you tumbled short of our dreams
not through your fault, but because of the colossal vitality of your (illusion).
Had we forgotten?
Had we chosen to forget?

People die everyday, by the hands of their own (inherited) blood.
But we still look up and hold out our cold, shivering hands
(Hoping) for a droplet of retaliation.

Alphabetical B-u–ll—-e—-t—s

Mom and dad
Brother and sister
A dream and a hope
A friend and a mind
A love and an innocence
Smooth skin and a pair of perfect eyes

Taken away.

Collapsed like a reckless being
emptied like emotionless trash
Slaughtered like a harmless pig
Killed for meat.
The horror is unimaginable
Unthinkable

For a young girl
And for a traumatized veteran.
A blossoming future terminated by a loaded rifle.
By a deranged boy
So helpless and lost
So neglected and embarrassed
That he shall kill instead of love.

He was once like us.
Adolesent and beautiful
Full of aspiration and inspiration
Beating with a lively soul
And endless blue and green veins

When did we know his innocent play
Would transform into a holocaust held in a classroom?
A place of learning
Doomed as a bloodbath.

Where his blissful mind flourished while learning his alphabet
Numbers
Colors
Words.
When one day he would put a bullet through the same women who taught him how to spell his name.
The same place these powerful children died as hero’s
Was his first introduction into a world of knowledge.

20 children had to painfully watch as their heroine
best friend
teacher
first crush
sink to the ground in agony
in front of their now imperfect eyes
where only an hour before they drank there milk
and waved goodbye to parents they wouldn’t live to see again
if only they knew the imprint of their kiss would be their last.

6 short years was the life they only knew
where things were faultless and flawless
and life was concise and carefree.
Where they didn’t know what gender inequality was
Animal cruelty
Terrorism
Racism
War
And death
And why it existed in this world.
They would never learn about Martin Luther King Jr.
Rosa parks
Gloria Steinem
Gandhi

When did we turn a place where children were supposed to safe
Into a national symbol of heartbreak.

It was a wet and mournful day.
The once lively and prosperous classroom that led the youth into the arms of a new generation
was shot into the deep tissue and pores of delight
where it was still warm
The trickling blood quickly turned frigid and raw
There was no more movement
No one to save
Everything was imperfectly still.


India Witkin, Age 16, Grade 11, LaGuardia Arts High School, Silver Key

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