This morning, I woke up…
To invisible hands
Covering my ears, eyes, mouth
At news of conflicts,
Sights of damage,
Speaking of war
My mother trying to protect
What’s left of the innocence within me
From the evil around me
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To grit in my clothes
That no amount of shaking out
Can ever seem to set free
The fine silt of cracked walls
That permeate  the very air itself
It becomes a part of the ink
That is my bloodstream
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To shattered windows,
The latest of blasts bursting the last of panes
In the former still of the night
Too much to bother cleaning then
Now a glaring hazard in the early light of dawn
Still it’s almost a relief,
No longer having to worry
About breaking what’s already gone
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To wishing those invisible hands
Were still there to provide the bliss
Of the ignorance of youth
For now they know I know
And there is no going back
To the unseen, unheard, unspoken
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To one hand holding a pen
The other a rifle
Pondering
Which holds more power
The one for fighting what’s without
The other to keep it from becoming
What’s within
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To remember my only choice
…and picked up my pen.

This morning I woke up…
…and picked up my pen.

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At dVerse  we’re invited to write poetry against the world today when the outspoken are being killed. It has been a subject at the back of my mind for a while now, brought a little closer since the death of Charlie Hebdo, but with the recent deaths of Avijit Roy and Boris Nemtsov it’s moved to the front.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics: Make our voices heard

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Also, see how others are slicing it up this month: