Mr. D


Source: Google images. Photo not mine.


When hope has disappeared from all the eyes can see, I resort to what one can hear: poetry.

Right now, my fingers gently tap against the seemingly exhausted keyboard, forming words that silently resonate inside my head. I honestly don’t know if this will – at any point- make any sense; I just know that writing is supposed to be something that will free me from the chains of reality, from all the cruelty that my eyes embrace but my ears could no longer tolerate.

I am exhausted. I feel like a swarm of beautiful butterflies that peacefully plays in the air has suddenly been engulfed by a one-eyed monster named Mr. D. One might not believe how my eyes can stay open despite such an unimaginable cruelty. But my ears – oh my ears- plead for deafness as all the colors crush between Mr. D’s venomous canines, and as the little ones silently scream, begging with their last breath for help.

Help us, help us. The sound only fades into the horizon until they’re no more.

But I can’t do anything. All I can do is escape by pretending that the swarm of butterflies still linger against a bright, blue sky, resorting to metaphors that try to salvage what has been unjustly taken away.

Mr. D, Mr D, let us free.

Mr. D, have you no mercy?

Mr. D…

Mr. D…


It’s useless.

My reality has become fantasy.

Do you see the butterflies?


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