THIS. THIS.

This poem is for you, the student

burying his head over betraying books.

Sipping the coffee that gives no promises of tomorrow.

How many classes do you skip?

This poem is for you, the tired Mother carrying a baby.

forgetting her meals on the kitchen floor.

To listen to the music that beckons

That makes you hover around ancient letters that have no weight.

That makes you write sloppy rhymes on tables.

What did you name your daughter?

This poem is for you, the teacher.

Who wakes up to the agonizing light, the draining children.

The closing bells that make you nauseous.

The burden that soaks your strength.

Did you cry again?

This poem is for you, the young girl,

searching the mirror for questions.

Washing off fatigue over the sink and bidding it not to tell, not to dare secrets.

Your mother threw plates at you during dinner amidst curses.

Will you forgive?

This poem is for the Priest who glows under the robes of white and green.

The choir sends rushing emotions to your heart.

Your feet is tired, your heart is light, time is grey.

Will you still sing in dark times?

This poem is for you, the curious reader.

At the end, you’ll realize that there’s really no poem.

Just a random calling out of people who breathe.

Some foreigners on earth.

Selah.