And I Stare At A Sky Which Has Turned Into A Graveyard. And I Cry As A New Star Appears Because Another

And I stare at a sky which has turned into a graveyard. And I cry as a new star appears because another child has died tonight. And I mourn for the constellations that remain incomplete. For one of them is alive. But isn't that worse? And I watch shooting stars search for their place, their country, yet there is no sky there for them to travel to. Just smoke. And fire. And a hell my God didn't make. And I watch from my screen as a world disappears. And I see its citizens begging to be heard. And then I see the rest of us. And I watch as we stuff cotton in our ears. 

My lord, 

Why do you do this? 

Why must i burn in the flames of my fathers sins, 

While he stands by my ashes

And prays for more light. 

Sent an email to tumblr and they cant do anything.

Im going to sleep everyone. Im just gonna deal with this shit in the morning.

I am lost here,

In this land i call home.

My feet burn and blister from the sand they walk over;

My mouth twinges and stings from the air it swallows;

My body spasms and twitches from the heat it withstands,

And I realise once more:

I was not made for this.

For where is the subtle brush of grass that should greet my every step?

Where is the smoke my lungs were made to breath?

Where are the monsoons that should shower my skin?

Where are they?

I am growing desperate, now.

Each day a new petal falls off me,

A thorn growing in its place,

And I find I am more cactus than jasmine today.

I feel the most poetic witnessing someone elses sadness. Someone else's loss. I do not know why. But my tears drip more freely then . My hand shakes less. my pen writes more. Maybe it is the fact that their misery seems to add a glow to them. A light. A beauty that not even time, with all of its slow decomposition, can fabricate. Maybe it is that. Or maybe it is their iron will, their burning heart, that makes it all so ethereal. My misery is nothing like this. Why? Why? Whywhywhywhy- my misery is a poison i inject into myself everyday, my misery is a shadow that takes my body's form, my misery is neither dark nor light. It does not glow. It does not burn. My misery is grey, ashen. It is my heart, with its crumbling arteries. It is my mind, with its disconnecting nerves. My misery doesn't seem poetic to me. 

I am 10. I ask my dad to write down his letters on a piece of paper I thrust into his face. He looks at me oddly, he complies. I am 10. And my hands ache and my fingers are sore, and the page has torn and ripped, yet I continue. My pencil has started to shake, it's lead has long blunted, and a fresh shaving of graphite covers the faded one beneath it, the once sharp curve of the 'B' disappearing under the layers atop it. I am 10. And I wish my dad shared more than just blood with me.