Anger is a volatile emotion. Unstable, it can wax and wane easily between violence and depression. Or - as such is my current case - hopelessness.

It’s easy to get caught up in world events and feel as though the walls are closing in, especially in this borderline Orwellian post-9/11 world. What’s not as easy is to find some sort of hope, some sort of light to hold onto. Something that reminds you that this is all just temporary, that the hounds won’t always be chasing you.

I wrote this poem to try and find just that.

Hope. In place of hopelessness.   

MORSE CODE in ROUGE 

On the surface of my palm there are four small gashes 

bleeding.

A sort of Morse code in rouge. 

You think they’re from a knife - 

and you’re half right, 

they are from anger. 

But rather from my fist, clenched so tight - 

fingertips digging into soft flesh.

So tightly bound 

Shaking 

A balled up fist waiting to be proved wrong. 

“Why yes Fahad, there is such thing as Justice” 

“No, you don’t have to tear down these walls looking for it…” 

“I’ve brought it to you, here on this Silver Platter…” 

But that is just a daydream. 

And Justice is Santa Claus (or WMDs) 

Instead, I unclench my fist.

Open my hand. 

And stare down at what you see as blood, 

but what I see as Failure. 

Because my palms are bleeding rather than my Knuckles. 

Because when they told you that Santa wasn’t real

Didn’t you want to fight for his existence?