Last night, I participated in my very first poetry slam event. I have had a strong affinity with poetry, especially spoken word, for many years now. When this opportunity arose, I grabbed it with two hands. Going into it, I was a bit nervous, I didn't know what to expect. The night was split into competitive and non-competitive speakers. One other guy and I were the only competitive speakers, which was a tad... interesting. The only rule was we had to write a poem about refugees because it's a huge crisis that we need to put more time and thought into. Since it was super casual and there were only two competitive speakers, we tied and received a massive chocolate block for our efforts. The atmosphere was really chill and accepting and I definitely want to participate in similar events in the future. So, without further ado, here is my refugee poem called, This Is My Home.
This is my home
Cracked concrete streets, neat lawns adorned with shrubbery
A moss-ridden roof encases a room to call my own
A sanctuary for me, riddled with individuality
Modest, maybe a little rough around the edges
But, it is still my home, it’s still my reality
This is his home
Ghost towns, overrun more so by bloodshed and debris than living beings
bomb beaten districts deem the streets unrecognisable
He had to flee, a light so bright awoke him from sleep
He had never seen stars such as these, hurtling towards earth
But they were not stars, were they?
Bombs and fire, exploding in fear
Settled ash revealed catastrophe
This was his home
He used to play in trees he said, but now craters take their place
His mother is dead, his father bled a thousand words of fear and his sister fled, not even leaving a trace of her existence, the terror running through her veins forced her to run away
He didn’t want to leave
They started in Syria and found themselves in Greece
Hours on sinking boats, plastered with crying children, no safety in sight
He doesn’t know of home
A room of his own seems a distant memory
Teddy Bears turned to tents and tarpaulin
Nightstands became backpacks
The thing about home is it provides identity, a certain serenity, a place you go that fills your bones
Now, he remembers home as rubble and fire
He barely recalls the times when he used to climb trees
He tries to find home in his dreams, he roams free, ridded of war and pain, just for a while, he sees a life that could be
He tries to find home in between the lines of a book he struggles to read
He doesn’t know of luxury
The eyes of this child have witnessed trauma on the most profound of levels
Some that we may never come to comprehend
We who have options and a future of relative certainty
We who can come home to food in the fridge and a hand to hold
We who take so many comforts for granted
He doesn’t know of home so he created his own
He took shelter under a sliver of hope
He sought asylum within himself and found a flicker of light
Despite the walls crumbling around him, he aspires to seek higher
Despite the destruction, he tries to build himself his own future, one brick at a time
- Miller
Comments
Post a Comment