Young Writers Society

I don't see you sitting atop your rain cloud
I stick my ear to the sun
And I don't hear a sound
How do you expect me to listen to you
When the children beside me are starving
And my bones are starting to shatter
And yet you don't make a sound!

So, come
Come to the warzone
Come see what your silence causes
The blood of your actionless quiet is present
In the form of a salt-lacened tear
Death the beginning, death as the end, it doesn't matter
It hurts all the same

My mother was a surgeon
A master of her craft
You couldn't count the number of lives that she saved
The people she helped, the days she made
But she was also agnostic
Does that mean she's going to rot in hell?

So, come
Come to the warzone
Come see what your silence causes
The blood of your actionless quiet is present
In the form of a salt-lacened tear
Death the beginning, death as the end, it doesn't matter
It hurts all the same

A bomb went off in Oman today
Killed all the poor and their children in the market
They say you could taste their blood for miles and miles
As the one who planted the bomb runs behind the alley
He closes his eyes and he asks you to forgive him
Then he pulls a gun from his pocket, shoots himself in the temple
Is he going to sip wine with Jesus
While the devil burns my mother's flesh?

I'm going to whine about the people who don't care
And you're going to complain about the people who do
Now excuse me while I close my eyes and talk to an invisible man
Who I barely understand!

So, come
Come to the warzone
Come see what your silence causes
The blood of your actionless quiet is present
In the form of a salt-lacened tear
Death the beginning, death as the end, it doesn't matter
It hurts all the same