On the Margins

this is for everyone,

that the world,

has driven,

to absolve it of blame,

those who became storage containers,

of pain.

to those, that society,

uproots,

and throws from soil to water,

demanding flowers in times of shock,

those who still ground themselves,

and claim their space.

this is for you, on the other side,

whose individuality,

is turned to an argument,

whose very organs are politicized,

who have to hide away the answers,

to publicized questions,

while simultaneously coughing up enough blood,

to feed private vampires,

who live in peace and bliss,

in a house built on your grave.

this is for everyone,

that is set ablaze,

only to be extinguished,

just in time for the cameras to snap a photo,

of a synthetic act of heroism.

on the sides of the page,

you are scribbled in like an afterthought,

because someone deemed you unworthy,

of being even a component,

of the larger art piece,

when you are made of the same clay.

the people that hold the blade,

bastardize the scars they engrave on you,

even with the blade still dripping with warm, crimson truth.

this is for those that remain,

for those hidden buds,

on snapped branches,

for those petals,

tearing through the blue monotony around,

burning holes in four dimensions,

those who become their own elements,

when the world denies them,

water, earth, and air,

a world that equally never fails to throw them into the flames.

this is for those,

who do everything,

when the world accuses them,

of being untrustworthy.

you stand,

in the way,

of others,

who try to tread the path,

you paved,

who throw beer cans and broken glass,

on trails you maintain,

who memorialize your space, your story, as theirs,

so that their name is a synonym,

and then a stand-in for yours.

this is for those who need,

to share their pain,

the uncomfortable emotion,

not easily digestible,

by the masses who choose complicity over change.

this is for those with pain that never trends,

but shakes the earth with a silent quake.

those whose life,

was heated, and bent,

to be perpendicular to this world,

who live and breathe trauma.

the same trauma,

that scratches and gouges out body mass,

until you are carved,

in the shell of yesterday,

stripped of all identity,

be it fat or sinew,

atrophy pays a visit.

jokes,

labeled as harmless,

by those who have never known how it feels,

to be someone else’s laughter,

serving as a punchline,

still yields a black eye,

when given time.

but if those people who know the hurt, try to stop it,

then we’re “ruining the fun”,

which begs the question,

who was having fun?

love is laced with fear,

to keep you docile,

so the world can do what it wants while you are unconscious,

then deny the event ever happened,

when your soul kept track of every deed.

the world avoids your voice,

the subject of oppression,

a process,

as people,

are crammed into the edges,

hide in unkempt hedges,

are experts,

at being the biggest person,

on the highest road,

while those with small cores,

build highways,

below, where all of society goes,

so that, even when you rise,

you still are not there.

this is for everyone,

that swallows down anger,

that actively fights falling into the same behavior,

that is somehow only wrong, when you do it.

those who stand,

casting shadows on statues,

statuesque,

for their home, their morals, their culture.

this is for those, who taught themselves to be ink,

who are merely smudged,

by the erasure of society.

keep living, keep loving on the margins.

hopefully, we will be the body text, soon enough.