I'm Not Proud To Be Human Anymore

My first poem.

I’m not proud to be human anymore.

We used to talk —
Now we are self-rejoice to grave.
So easily bought.
So difficult to save.

Once,
we knew the rustling of leaves,
the lapping of the shore.
But not these.
Not anymore.
No —
I’m not proud to be human anymore.

We’re locked to mirrors of black,
faces lit by phantom glow.
Strangers behind screens —
never once looking back
to the wonder
that still waits to be seen.

We confuse love with lust,
want with fire.
In attention we trust,
climbing that ladder,
falling to that pyre.
No —
I’m not proud to be human anymore.

We’ve turned neighbours into strangers,
screens into temples,
talking into danger,
and freedom into trembles.

And I cry at night.
When will we see
that shimmering light,
and at last — once again —
be free?

Then,
maybe then,
I can be proud to be human once more.

When we remember
we are stronger together
than divided apart.
When we ignore no longer
the matters of the heart.

When we recall the struggles of others,
and forsake not their pleas.
When we remember our brothers,
and the power
of good deeds.

Then —
then I can be proud
to be human
once more.