Poem: World Citizen

Have you ever come upon a piece of media that just destroys you completely? Mine is the song linked below. I don’t know – to me, it sounds so full of despair and melancholy that I just can’t get out of bed. I feel broken, hopeless, dead and depressed – which is why I didn’t post anything last Friday. Sorry. To make up for it, I decided to write a poem about how the song made me feel and what it made me think about. The title is World Citizen in homage to the song that depressed the shit out of me for a whole weekend.

Honestly, I wish I knew more. Like, I wish I knew what I was trying to say with this poem. But then again, if I did, I’d write that instead of the poem, now wouldn’t I. Sorry. I wish I was a better writer and a better poet, but this is all I’ve got. Stay, if you want. Leave, if you feel like it. Everyone else does.


World Citizen

I miss you on nights like this most of all.

When my feet are black, my head is cold

my throat aflame smoke rising to my brain 

trapping the heat traveling six minutes to arrive at nothing, melting

glaciers flow with nowhere to go.

Displacing the Himalayans fleeing through the mud with blackened feet inundating Dhaka

Flooding the graves of Fiji where soon we will be

for we have nowhere to go.

Water filled with toxic runoff and microplastics and the sticky swamp of the oil slick upon which fish and fowl become trapped will not quench,

but burns like the shores of the black sea pummeled by discordant symphony

of Joseph on his piano displacing, thinning the harvest, thinning those fleeing the Dnieper who are welcomed where blackened feet are refused entry for being dirty.

A cleansing demanded. A cleansing happens

and blood spatters the blackboard full of history. The cleansing continues 

with the action of a repeater on a spin cycle, cleaning the board

before the lessons can be learnt. The bodies burnt and the ashes 

Washed away into toxic runoff and microplastics that will not quench but blacken the seas with slick and burning the shores sick with crops that rot because we cannot profit from the feed demanding a cleansing that repeats until my feet are black and the rising smog traps the heat that melts the glaciers and displaces my tears into the black sea flooded graves of Fiji.

We have nowhere else to go.

On days like this, I miss you most of all.


This is the song I mentioned. Maybe you’ll have the same reaction. Most likely not. Thank you for reading, anyway.

Oh, and to whoever DM’ed me wishing me well? Right back at you, friend. Wherever you are.


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