We sit around my aunts brown kitchen table
A scene we’ve done a thousand times before where I slinked unnoticed behind my hair until it was turn to recite my yearly accomplishments.
Back into the shadows.
This time is different.
This time my father is dead.
Suicide.
He went missing 24 hours before.
“Your fathers illness took him”
He was diagnosed with a neurological disease months prior.
We never spoke.
No it didn’t, my brain screamed.
Suicide.
I run to the kitchen in panic trying to find clonizapam which I almost never take cause I’m afraid of pills.
“What are you taking, doing drugs won’t numb your pain”.
He’s a cop, of course anxiety meds would be seen as “drug addiction”.
“I’m having a panic attack” I muster, angrily from the displaced shame.
I don’t take the pill out of spite and we don’t say anything on the 30 minute drive to his house.
I’m probably sheet white, I feel anxious.
I feel nothing.
I haven’t cried.
We had a terrible relationship, dad and I.
Terrible.
Suicide.
Hours pass.
Minutes?
I dunno, I’m dissociating into everyone’s grief.
Stop talking to me.
I don’t want to be here.  
So many unanswered questions, ones I still don’t know nearly a year later.
Silence and awkwardness.
I sit at the head of their table and avoid everyone’s eyes except my little brothers.
They’re all staring at me, finally paying attention to me after so long.
I hate it.
I want to disappear, their eyes like pathetic little daggers of sadness.
Why the **** am I here?
Someone mentions my tattoos.
Yeah.
I have tattoos.
Tattooed hands, and a dead father.
I only cry when my brother does.
Telling him it’s a suicide, a face I’ll never forget and my soul left behind at the death of his innocence.
Nothing left to protect.
Our father is dead.
6 days till the year death anniversary.
I don’t cry as much as I had after the veil finally shattered.
I’ve never known depression like that; though I was able to find myself after severe heartache.
A traumatized youth.
C-ptsd.
Pass me the join, I need to sleep.

We all love a good story.
With a good ending,
What is going on today is not a story
It is the reality, of mad virology scientist

Its headlines that read like this
“As Biden nears victory, worlds hopes
For end to American isolationism

It’s hard to say it out loud without breaking in to pieces
It’s easier to live a lie, rather than to surrender?

When the American truth needs no translation
The poet became an unhappy Ambassador,
he believe in worldly- views:  He pen is waiting
to announce the winner, (who would it be)

Nothing is final to a poet eyes and ears
But to a mad scientist: it says progressivism
To him man or language wasn’t created equally
Every poet should be responsible for his poetic language
while every scientists should be held responsible for his action.

As well as his emotion and excretion
either from the mouths, or from the other end
the smell, textures even the tones
as long as  the world  acknowledges
them as the Lever of things to come

it’s hard to say it out loud without breaking in to piece
where there is action they will be a reaction
Leadership money and power: is that what we voted for?
is this what we are dying for? Is that most people dreams?

Trumps , Biden supporters face off in Detroit
Headlines like these make a poet pen trembles..

"Whoever keeps his mouth and his tongue
keeps his soul from troubles"
We are still waiting for the winner..

The hate you give
lives.
In the souls of those you love,
who learn to hate like you,
and the souls of those you hate
who learn to hate you in return.

The hate you give
grows.
It spreads to those
who surround you
and spreads to those
who surround the ones that hate you.

The hate you give
creates war.
Between religions
and regions
and colors
and haves vs have nots

The hate you learn
becomes the hate you give.
Only you can
unlearn your hate
and break the chain
of hate you give.

.

Some of them were strangers


Some of them were without any rule


None of them would see another tomorrow


And if the innocent are guilty


Of the crimes they are harboring within


Then what are the chances in the hands of the convicted


There in the tiredness of what resignation brings

In the rejection of your everything

When the dawn draws close with no exceptions

Some of them were crying

Some of them stood brave

In the end it just didn't matter . . .


All of their dreams came tumbling down

All of their love would soon expire

And the void in the midst of the distance left not a sound

As the earth swallowed all that mattered

It covered all of their future faults

Leaving the fresh dirt of new direction


Some of them were young

Some of them were old

Some of them were men and the others were women

Some of them were just in the wrong location

Maybe they had the wrong face of denial

Just maybe in memory they will not be forgotten

For being guilty of being innocent