Apocalypse Near
There's something special about being so futile,
sitting here waiting for a bomb to go off.
I can see the destruction,
the explosion,
the aftermath,
the devastation...
But it's like running underwater, weightless
I get nowhere - never closer - even while it plays out before my eyes!
Sometimes they whisper, sometimes they yell
But it's always the same, telling me what I should do
how I should feel
or how I should think
Well you know nothing - all of you!
Who are you to tell me that I can't stop this,
that I should sit by and watch the end draw near?
Who are you to demand my patience, my silence,
while the World falls apart around us?
Who are you to tell me that I'm strong enough for that?
I'm not strong at all!
I can stand before a room of people and tell them the truth,
about the lies and screams and sleepless nights and tears.
I can look you in the eye and fake bravado. Some days
my voice doesn't even shake when I talk about it.
But cross my legs and twiddle my thumbs
and watch this tragedy play out
like I'm a spectator at a theatre
with no vested interest in the outcome
- not crying out when the dagger is produced -
and pretending that we can all go home
and go on with our lives
when it's all over...
No! I can't do that!
... I won't do that?
Selfish, you call it, to want to ease my conscience
by warning them of what's to come
by speaking a truth that will cause only pain?
Selfish, I call it, to be obedient
and keep my mouth shut,
just to avoid a little difficulty in my life!
Neutrality, you tell me, is the goal:
don't advocate for one
and make an enemy of the other.
Neutral? I scoff.
I had a side, and an ally, and an enemy
chosen for me!
The battle lines were drawn - in permanent ink, like the words of a script - long before this began.
If I can't avoid the war
Why should I avoid the fight?
So I open my mouth
to scream
to yell
to speak
to whisper...
And no sound comes out,
because there's nothing that I can say.
My words won't be believed.
I am doomed, like Cassandra, to knowledge without revelation
to suffer the vision of the future in silence.
So I sit in this private theatre
Waiting for this production to start.
With baited breath,
and stinging eyes,
I wait for the day when I can pick up the pieces left behind
by the apocalypse that draws ever near.
Strong?
I think not.
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Author's Note
I wrote this during a very difficult period in my life, and I hope that it gets across a couple messages, of feeling futile and slightly oppressed, as well as the emotions anger and frustration.
The original version is highly indented for stylistic purposes, though I think this works as well. I hope that the choppy phrases and stanzas create a sense of urgency and discontinuity (like a war, get it?).
I'd love to hear what you thought of and got out of reading this. I'm thinking of using it for part of my submission to a selective creative writing class (only twelve members per section!), so your feedback will be much appreciated.
sitting here waiting for a bomb to go off.
I can see the destruction,
the explosion,
the aftermath,
the devastation...
But it's like running underwater, weightless
I get nowhere - never closer - even while it plays out before my eyes!
Sometimes they whisper, sometimes they yell
But it's always the same, telling me what I should do
how I should feel
or how I should think
Well you know nothing - all of you!
Who are you to tell me that I can't stop this,
that I should sit by and watch the end draw near?
Who are you to demand my patience, my silence,
while the World falls apart around us?
Who are you to tell me that I'm strong enough for that?
I'm not strong at all!
I can stand before a room of people and tell them the truth,
about the lies and screams and sleepless nights and tears.
I can look you in the eye and fake bravado. Some days
my voice doesn't even shake when I talk about it.
But cross my legs and twiddle my thumbs
and watch this tragedy play out
like I'm a spectator at a theatre
with no vested interest in the outcome
- not crying out when the dagger is produced -
and pretending that we can all go home
and go on with our lives
when it's all over...
No! I can't do that!
... I won't do that?
Selfish, you call it, to want to ease my conscience
by warning them of what's to come
by speaking a truth that will cause only pain?
Selfish, I call it, to be obedient
and keep my mouth shut,
just to avoid a little difficulty in my life!
Neutrality, you tell me, is the goal:
don't advocate for one
and make an enemy of the other.
Neutral? I scoff.
I had a side, and an ally, and an enemy
chosen for me!
The battle lines were drawn - in permanent ink, like the words of a script - long before this began.
If I can't avoid the war
Why should I avoid the fight?
So I open my mouth
to scream
to yell
to speak
to whisper...
And no sound comes out,
because there's nothing that I can say.
My words won't be believed.
I am doomed, like Cassandra, to knowledge without revelation
to suffer the vision of the future in silence.
So I sit in this private theatre
Waiting for this production to start.
With baited breath,
and stinging eyes,
I wait for the day when I can pick up the pieces left behind
by the apocalypse that draws ever near.
Strong?
I think not.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note
I wrote this during a very difficult period in my life, and I hope that it gets across a couple messages, of feeling futile and slightly oppressed, as well as the emotions anger and frustration.
The original version is highly indented for stylistic purposes, though I think this works as well. I hope that the choppy phrases and stanzas create a sense of urgency and discontinuity (like a war, get it?).
I'd love to hear what you thought of and got out of reading this. I'm thinking of using it for part of my submission to a selective creative writing class (only twelve members per section!), so your feedback will be much appreciated.