Poems about Anger & Rage

If It Bleeds, It Leads
by HaliJo Webster

Comment about this poem:
This rant was inspired after I heard an ex-reporter turned to outreach worker was asked by a reporter on the Canadian broadcasting Channel why he felt the survival sex workers and homeless voices were never really in the forefront of news before the Robert William Pickton trial. His response was that "sadly if the story bleeds it leads"

If it bleeds it leads.
Pickton survivors, main and Hastings
are harrased questioned and followed
Media alert! Media alert!

I will be famous! She says..
My experience will make me famous!
Finally my suffering will pay off!

Who are the media seeking?
Who are they trying to help?
All in the day of a bloody lead story.

Robert?
Robert William?
Robert William Pickton?
I believe we are all connected but,
Robert,
I feel unclean and search for compassion inside my self.
I feel sad instead, just sad.

I can write 'Fuck' beside your name
and' Fuck' looks like just a word and you the dirty.
Fuck Robert William Pickton.

Are you getting haaaaaaaaaaaard
knowing your prey are talking about you?
You still exsist in our sleep, and wakeful hours.
Living breathing eating and sleeping,
your sick leftovers haunting our minds.
Inquiring minds want to know more!
Sick bastards, draculas feeding off horror and
unsung heroes and the blood of survivors.

30 or more years of abuse, addictions, stereotyped beings,
and suffering mental incapacities, psychosis and past memories
of clouded visions wishing to escape.
Street-wiser than those
who dare to... have to... choose to... walk our talk.

Where was the media when it was just about us?
Where was the media when we started to go missing?

Our family cries!
Our story, our pleas, our voices, our dignity, our rights?
Add one Robert Pickton and you get a blender of
mixed emotional trauma and body parts.

Ah yes, I bleed so you are interested.
Crying is clearly not enough.
You sick bastards!!!
Run it's the media, RUN!
and
What about the voices of the fresh victims?
Those who have not yet learned
how oppression and suppression are in the blood
If born a female... oh the silence that is your heir.

What about those voices who have for the first time experienced
a probe, a burning cigar or cigarette on flesh,
or objects bruising their bodies, or another piece of flesh
or witnesses to one of those (just an accident incidents)

Those little warriors
that are the students of the 30 year survivor world...
What about those voices!
Not bleeding enough?
No lead story?
HUH?
HUH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Run...
it's the media...
RUN!

© HaliJo Webster, Jan 2007

Religious Barriers
by HaliJo Webster

Note about this poem:
(For those of you who loved me via your religion, I thank you for your prayers, your thoughts and gestures, for I know you meant/mean well, and seeing that we are all connected, I see past the barriers of one all truism and I am grateful to all). There are many rivers that lead to the ocean. My God-Self is awakened and a part of me daily.

Save them thru Christ!
You will not have to connect then.
A barrier exists.
God bloody bless your precious souls back!
Where were you when my boat sank?
Swimming to shore and praying for my soul?
Not even looking back to see if I could swim,
because "god will save me"?
Gee, thanks for caring!
"God never gives you more than you can handle",
Pardon me, but that suppresses my right to
feel sad, angry, and emotional,
and does not validate my feelings at all!
Why did you not throw me a paddle and say,
"ROW! You can do it! You are your own captoness!"
Why did you just say (he) will save me!
And who walked on water?
Oh... jesus christ!

Why did you not ecourage me to walk on water?
How nice it would be to put my faith into something
that asks me to give my will and life over.
I already have given that away on my journey's tour of duty.
I think it belongs to me now.

Just what will you do with my past,
with your male sytemic god?
How will I be empowered if you take all my hurt and lessons away?
Row, Row, Row your boat gently down the stream
merrily merrily merrily merrily
life can be a night mare! No kidding.

I can be aware of the dangers,
heal through the realities and not bestow my hardships onto anyone
or gendered he god outside myself if expected to
conform according to external goodnesses
by denying or
metamorphasizing my bieng into its unatural state
losing out on my rightfully earned coping skills to gain empowerment.
A god goddess or a more feminine (non white male system) creator
that changes, grows and vitalizes the processes of being
never conflicting with body rights,
choices and keeps the inner voice fluent is 
my strength and guidance on my journey's magnificent life cycle.

I breathe, I walked on water and headed for flight.
I have taken my hand and walked my way
through a massive darkness
Then to awake,
now I dream standing.
Eyes wide open.

© HaliJo Webster, Jan 2007