I sit in my room alone.
With my soul, mind and phone.
Wondering, why do I feel lost in my own home?
Is it the police sirens that give me insomnia?
My brain; painting pictures of pigs moving like mafia.
What would it be like if they kicked down my door tonight?
Would I run? Would I stay with my gun and die in a firefight?
Would my grandma
A lone notification brings me back to reality.
Someone liked my photo.
Why is a follower so significant when I’ve been used to flying solo?
My heart has been my comrade when I’ve gone sad.
Is it possible to be self critical over my subliminal,
Or have I gone mad?
Still in my room alone,
But at least my quiet home
Has not been bombed like Baghdad,
The tranquil desert riddled by bloody dog tags and
Bourgeois with top hats,sipping colonized cocktails
Made from tears, fear and oil field cognac.
Another notification reminds me of my family.
I wonder how many aliens are colonized in the galaxy?
Maybe they too had their precious stones, flesh and bones
Become reduced to just a number in the book of necessary casualties.
Some girl texts my phone.
About how she misses me and when will I return to be her man.
I ask her,
When will your white system return our peoples land?
Pay the reparations for breaking hearts,
So from North to South, Korea can be holding hands.
Why is it cause my eyes slightly slant,
I can’t stand up for myself and fight without being called Jackie Chan?
Will I live to see my art hang in a museum?
Or will I disappear in 24 hours like a new social media story feature?
My spirit can’t decide what it wants to be.
A warrior or an honest preacher?
A fighter or a strong believer?
The lesson to the question is you can be both.
A student and a teacher.
A documentary and a teaser.
You can’t be a colosseum without being a mausoleum.