Dead Boy’s Poem
A short story by
Katane-Chan
Foreword
Being in a country of war is something one doesn’t want. You hear explosions all the time, people screaming, children crying – and most of all, you see blood. So what would - and should - one do? One option is to immigrate to another country. Another option is simply to stay.
To immigrate, though, can be a very hard task. One needs to go through a lot of things, but in the end, one might have to travel back to where he/she came from.
The second option, which is to stay, is the risky one. If there’s a war going on, there’s also a big chance of getting killed. Making a choice like this is more difficult than anyone could imagine. Of course one wants to leave, but what about the friends and the rest of the family that would be left behind? Plus; it’s one’s mother country – it’s where he/she grew up. That thought weighs a lot, when making a decision. But one must always think twice.
When immigrating, it’s like playing a game – those having control are treating one like puppets; they can basically do whatever they want. Even if some immigrants live up to some requirements, they can still be denied access to the country. They take one’s life away and ruin one’s family. It sounds terrible and it is terrible!
One survivor. One secret game.
One hero with an anonymous name.
A quest for success. A quest for love.
A quest that was given from the gods above.
A life that was taken. A life that you stole.
A life that once made the hero’s heart whole.
A poisoned drink. A poisoned mind.
A poisoned hero that acted in blind.
One murderer. One secret game.
One devil with an anonymous name.
***
Dead Boy’s Poem
I was born and raised in Vietnam and came to the states when I was about 9 years old. I'm now 19 and an illegal immigrant. I can’t work or go to school like the rest of the kids around me, but is instead stuck with nothing to do. The American dream tells us, that in this country nothing is impossible if you work hard, demonstrate resilience, act with integrity and persevere. For many immigrants those dreams and hopes brought them to America, to this world, to this land of endless possibilities and to many a land of perfection. I could possibly do anything that I wished for, in this country, but with a status like mine, it’s not possible. “How I wish I never got a taste of the American dream” was one of my many thoughts - and this is my story.
My dad, who brought me to this country in the first place, found a new woman – an American – after the divorce with my mom, whom I lost all contact to. My dad and I therefore settled down in his new girlfriend's small apartment. It was great. I thought everything was going to be okay now – that we had overcome the worst difficulties. But I was wrong. One day, my dad got killed in crossfire. It happened when I was about 15. I still think about him every day. It was very hard to let go in the beginning. I would curl up and cry on his pillow every night because it smelled like him. I would bury my face in the shirt he had worn the day before and just sob. “How could he be gone?” I thought. I could still smell him. This was one of the last remaining parts of him. At that time I felt as if life had no meaning - my heart and soul were shattered. I would fall asleep at night and wake up in the morning, praying this was just a dream. Every day I had to face reality; he was gone forever, and to ease my pain, I started writing poems – I had to let my feelings out in some way and found myself coming to an ease when scribbling down words, turning them into something creative and beautiful – something with meaning:
A rising sun – a purple line – creates a beautiful life which has now begun
A dangerous mind – caught in darkness eyes – reveals itself and its evil kind
A runaway – an escape from the dark – inside the huge maze of night and day
A lost love – an aching heart – who was sent to the angels of high above
This one is just one out of many. I still write a lot of poems, even though it’s been four years since my father died. His girlfriend threw me out not long after, by the way, so I am left alone in this huge country, which was supposed to hold my dream, but unfortunately didn’t. I began wondering what to do next. I knew that someday, the US Immigration and Customs Enforcement would take me in, so I started hiding. I usually slept at different train stations and I sometimes had to steal, just to get something to eat. The street had become my home. It was no use though; they caught me at night, while I was sleeping, and sent me right to prison, which is now my current location. I’ve been here for about two years by now, I think. Sitting in a tiny prison cell nearly all day long is life draining. All I wanted was to live in this country as a free citizen, not a prisoner. I know that it sounds impossible, since I’m an illegal immigrant, but still, that was my wish.
I’ve been here too long. My soul has died a bit, day by day. It’s time to get out – to leave. I’m writing my last poem:
Now, as I lay here in the dark
And I think back to the start
I know some things have to end
For the next one to begin
This life is filled with hurt
Something's getting in the way
Something's just about to break
There's a fine line
Between love and hate
The times hardened up my heart
Now, as we stand two worlds apart
When happiness doesn't work
Desperately, I will crawl
From a world of no regrets
'Cause I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all
As I burn another page
Hold the candle to the flame
As I look the other way
Light the ashes in the rain
I feel the pressure letting go
From the very bottom of my soul
When happiness doesn't work
Anger and agony
Are better than misery
Waiting for so long
I still try to find my place
I walk alone free at last
I walk the line on broken glass
And I don't mind
Pain, without love
Just let me say that I like that
No love, there is no love
I like that
‘Cause I’d rather feel pain than nothing at all
This is the end of the line
This is my funeral
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tired
bored
okay
anxious
lazy