The Privilege of Hopelessness

I simply refuse to be cynical about the inevitability of a free Palestine.

I can’t write anything anymore.
I am screaming.
If screaming into the abyss were poetry,
this is the most poetic I have ever been in my life.

And a poem can start with being alive.
Being thankful for quiet,
and water,
and a roof and a made bed.
Allow myself one second spent away from turning art into action.
Instead of thickening my thorns, I will gently water my flowers.
The sickness of soliloquy’s dedicated to leaders
who refuse to witness me is gnawing at my wounds.
How can I dedicate more of my time
if they are doused head-to-toe in indifference?

If Rafah is burning,
right now, I can hope my tears will put out the flames.

When they began the invasion,
I called my mother to tell her I love her.
I told her I should say it more.
That if, God forbid, the house was ever rippled into rubble,
I would rebuild it for her.
That her eyes may rest
while I am on hand and knee
digging my siblings out from the carnage of our lives.
I wouldn’t let her lose another child.
I weep in fear of a reality that I am lucky enough
to not have be my own.

I can’t write anymore.
My hands hurt from my attempts to shake sense into shoulders.
I’m trying to write myself away from this feeling.
The pressure building on the back of my neck,
as shame hangs my head
in lieu of yet another failure.
The blood of children pools the streets Gaza again,
my nails claw into my skin,
my ears deafened by my own resentment;
I HAVEN'T DONE ENOUGH.
My words and I are still so small,
and I am far too quiet.
I simply must be LOUDER.

As long as the sky is not rocketing down to kill me,
I have a duty to human until I no longer can.
I can write while my rage pumps blood through my veins,
while I still have two hands
to wrap around the throats of power.
A poem can start with being alive,
but it will move with an un-tameable vigour.
It will roar over seas and move mountains,
pierce chests of heartless men.
We must rupture the ground we stand on!
allow our voices to rise upon a tidal wave.

The abyss will be scared of us!
It already is.
Our screams split cracks and spill in the light.
Replenish the lakes of darkness with nothing but people power!

And though it has been made painfully clear to me
that so many will hear a tree fall and pretend to not hear it,
I know it doesn’t have to be that way.
I hear each and every sound.
We all do.
We cannot un-hear it.

So when they send our soldiers to play games with monsters,
we will break the bed in which they hide beneath!
When they rewrite over our histories we will rip out the pages!
And when they lie down and masquerade as "victims",
I will have no problem pressing the soles of their shoes against their necks!

They continue to underestimate the rage of a single person,
let alone the world.
We know what they can and will do next.
The question is always what our next steps are.

Take the time you need to scream for Gaza,
but we cannot afford the privilege of hopelessness.
The price is far too high,
and we are not the ones paying it.
A poem can start with being alive,
and it will end with a free Palestine.