Keane to Write Julia

I will never be safe again.


I know they are out to get me.


They’ll come back for vengeance for what I did,
I fought and I killed to save those I loved,
But they’ll still come back for me.


I’m sure they already know where I live,
Where I work,
Where I grew up and where I graduated.


They probably know where I had my first kiss,
My first dance,
My first fight.


They know it all.


They know all of my movements,
They are prowling in the shadows-
Ready to pounce at any second.


They are the apex predator and I am their prey.


They are the hunters and I am the sitting duck-
No idea where they’ll come from,
When they’ll attack,
How they’ll attack.


I just sit.


Waiting for my inevitable demise.


For no-one can walk away from that place without being haunted by the ghosts’ lives that lay on their hands. 

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Instagram: keane_to_write

*Copyright ownership: Keane to Write*
Music Credit: "Inside Job" Jon Sumner

This heaviness is interpreted as laziness when in reality it’s an exasperation of this dehydration pumping through my veins like a drug I did not choose to take. 
I’m over dosing yet I’m not even indulging 
nor do I feel the high. 
My brain screams for mercy yet 
IT 
is 
The perpetrator. 
It is the protagonist and antagonist all at once. 
My defenceless body is at the forefront of the brutal beatings that go on and on and on. 
Every morning is worse then the night before. 
This spiral is an endless cycle of invisible torture that no one sympathisers for. 
 
And because of their “views” and “opinions” on my disease, 
Because they can not see the outcomes they think it’s a breeze 
They don’t see the war just to get up out of bed
They don’t see the mask society gives me to wear each and every day 
They don’t see the tiredness wearing on my sanity 
They don’t see that my full tank starts where their fuel light flashes 
They only see laziness, attention seeking and whinging 
They only see what they want to see,
Not what is my true reality.
And because that’s all they see, 
I am forced to wear the crooked mask they give me;
I put on a broken smile and try to hide the blaring alarms my brain screams at me all day every day 
My answer is always “I’m doing good” when in reality I am no where near good but they don’t ask to hear the truth. 
I am pushed into a corner of isolation because I don’t want these labels
I don’t want this shame
I am not to blame. 
 
All I want is to wake up as if I had actually slept. 

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Instagram: keane_to_write

*Copyright ownership: Keane to Write*
Music Credit: "Break Free" by Fabien Tell
 

The tired ground groans at the weight on his shoulders,
His hair is coarse and sharp, it coils and frames his body so eloquently yet threateningly 
His ancient skin is etched with wrinkles and crevices 
His bony fingers protrude up into the sky-
The few that are left have been stripped of any colour or life.
His tears no longer quench the thirst of the perverted ones that claim ownership over him,
they use to look after him, but now? Now look at him, they fertilise him with littered Bodies rather than fresh manure
they use to freely wonder and share. But now? Now their greed has grown far too vicious.
He longs for the days of old;
The days of green pasture and peace 
The days of leisure and laughter 
The days where he was watered with fresh spring streams of clear water, not rotting streams of curdling blood.
He tries to cry at what they have done to him but there is nothing left for him to cry. 
No energy. 
No life. 
No emotion. 
He is too tired to be livid now
Too worn to fight for his life 
And as he yearns for what was once his, all he can do is let out a small, pitiful groan. 

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Instagram: keane_to_write

*Copyright ownership: Keane to Write*
Music from Uppbeat (free for Creators!):ht
https://uppbeat.io/t/weary-pines/home
License code: LMY7Z6FV9WJHUXWY

The silence is deafening


The silence is deafening.
The silence is the blaring warning alarm.
When it falls silent you know it has begun.


When the silence shrieks you know its time.
You’re surrounded by glistened eyes.
This is it.
It’s time to go.


The zombies of the group know what’s about to happen.
The cleaned faced ones have no idea of the torture ahead.
The silence is a siren, leading to their graves.
Not graves – a slaughterhouse.


The rivers cup their blood in its hands.
The ground consumes their dying breath.
the only lasting evidence –
Wire,
Empty bullet shells,
And the stench of grief and decay.


You don’t need to look over the trench to see it.
The silence tells you what lies ahead.
For the silence is a piercing alarm,
It is deafening. 

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Instagram: keane_to_write

Music credit: AK

*Copyright ownership: Keane to Write*

We worry about illness,
About pandemics and disease.
We worry about death,
About catching what others have.
But we are already sick.


We worry about germs,
About cleanliness and hygiene.
We worry about infection,
About disability and injury.
But we are already infected.


I saw with my owns eyes. 
I saw humans living in their filth. 
I saw naked children running through infested waters. 
I saw the 1metre by 2metre tin sheds they slept in. 


I smelt the smells and heard the sounds. 
I saw the hopelessness. 
I saw the pain and suffering. 


I saw the father spending all day trying to sell something 
just to be able to feed his family that night. 
I saw the woman selling her body to keep her children alive. 


…


I saw the mansions sitting on the hills 
surrounding the sea of tin sheds. 
Those mansions.
Those big, warm, dry mansions.
Those tall, noble, handsome mansions.
I also saw their sick inhabitants.
Their infected inhabitants.


I saw the rats run past my feet. 
I sat on the wood and thin piece of cloth they try to find rest on. 
I saw the disease. 
I saw the dead in the street. 
I saw the never-ending cycle.... 


And yet here we are. 
Sitting in our heated, brick houses with electricity. 
With phones in our hands. 
With an education. 
With food. 
Clean running water. 


Here we are sitting in our homes
No fear of a stranger bursting in. 
No fear of the rapist waiting.
No fear of the murderer lurking.
No fear of the thief sneaking. 


We sit here in our glutton
In our pride 
In our greed.


The world is suffering from a different pandemic.
This pandemic has always been there.
It sweeps across the nations, 
Picking the lucky ones.


The infection first attacks the eyes.
They slowly become blind.
They begin to only see what is put in front of them.
What is hand fed to them.


It then changes their sense of taste.
They consume the first thing put in front of them.
They no longer crave for deeper flavours.
They begin to starve.


Their sense of hearing goes next.
They use the hearing aids given to them.
Only listening through the filters.


Now their heart begins to fail.
It doesn’t beat like it’s supposed to.
It doesn’t beat the right rhythm.


After their heart goes, its then their sense of touch.
They no longer feel.
No longer feel sadness.
No longer feel grief.
No longer feel sympathy.
No longer feel conviction.
No longer feel anger towards injustice.


They don’t see them anymore.
They don’t see their naked, inhumane, raw, Human flesh.


They don’t have a taste for justice anymore.
They don’t have a taste for humanity anymore.


They don’t hear their desperate screams of plea.
They don’t hear their dying voices.


Their heart no longer beats for them.
Their heart now beats for themselves.


They no longer feel the pain of the suffering.
They no longer feel the grief of the hopeless.


They no longer feel.
They are no longer human.
We are no longer human.


We are sick.
We are infected by a pandemic.
And a needle won’t stop this one.
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Instagram: keane_to_write

Music credit: Ilya Kuznetsov

*Copyright ownership: Keane to Write*