Faces are blurry,

his was the one I remembered,

and I don’t know why,

but when he turned to see me,

I caught a certain look.

As I sit in this room,

waiting for the inevitable,

wondering why his familiarity discomforted me

like a bad memory resurfaced – but on his face.

His face that carried the burden I felt.


The clock ticked away only the time.

Everything else was the same.

The same table with the same amount of untouched newspapers

that no one had the time to read.

The chairs with the same people,

with the same expressions,


unwavering yet somehow broken.

The feeling in the pit of my stomach, unyielding

to the laws of time.

For what is time really,

when all it changes,

is the numbers on your digital watch,

and maybe a regime,

that will employ the same tactics as the last,

deceiving you,

promising to take care of you,

the common man?


He is broken.

His face tells me he is broken.


And then i realize,

this familiarity,

it’s because i have the same face.

He’s probably looking at me thinking the same things.

Feeling the same pain.

But soon we will look different,

as he hears she will be ok,

and I hear he is gone.

He turns to me and sees the helplessness around my eyes,

wrinkled with age that didn’t belong to me,

and he feels the pain again.

And he probably realizes,

it will never end,

because they don’t end it,

because they don’t want to.


This is where we are,

forced to be victims of crimes,

committed by people,

we had the freedom to choose.


I am broken.

My face tells him i am broken.

Like my rhymes.



Beyond anger comes action. So BE A HERO.

log on to http://beahero.armman.org/

4 thoughts on “The Waiting Room

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