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Caralee Koopal Poem
I watch your exuberant glowing eyes as they shimmer in the radiance of your joy,
False, false joy,
The tears of your desperate smiles break from the icicle of confusion,
Confusion I cannot explain,
My mind celebrates to reflect upon your honors,
Breaking, breaking from the pure disdain I withhold inside my bones,
Spinning the wheel of indecision
Such upon this web you’ve spun, you take the throne,
“My people, I swear to honesty, I swear to dedication,”
I hear your oath of self righteousness as I lay my head upon the soft pillow,
Sinking, sinking,
I repeat your vow inside my head time and time again,
Each word spinning, twisting around your incredulous hierarchy,
I nod in belief, yet there is a feeling,
In another sense I know you are to break these words from reality,
Your honor, I will not bow down to your betrayal,
Betray me, betray us as your walls close tighter,
For I, your right hand man, could not create the security,
The look upon your face, your first face, fades away,
Your second is a twisted sharpness,
The blade of unobstructed betrayal cuts deeper into my skin,
Pressing upon my back, penetrating my flesh, reaching the depths of my being,
Just as you are about to shove the knife further into my heart, you stop,
I accept you’re tracing, mapping out my fate,
You search the bottom of your heart, pulling out forgiveness,
My apologies flood the air like poison rain,
Each stings not you, but me,
Yet I forgive,
I remember,
That knife,
The heart, stitched but never the same,
Your betrayal,
Your hate.
I am the jester, I smile and laugh. You’d never know my pain for I’m taught to wear it like a mask.
No longer,
No longer.
I feel all eyes on me, watching my every move,
Each step, a fear,
Each step, a worry,
Each step, another closer to my demise,
That sneer that pulls your lips into the state of joy, evident to those around you,
What are you gaining? Can’t you see there’s simply no point?,
Years of deception for mere moments of prize,
What are you gaining, I ask again?
For you and me, we are not the same,
My lips purse as you blur the lines of companionship and hate,
I am the jester broken but proud,
You cannot break what’s broken,
For my mask falters down,
No longer,
No longer.
Copyright © Caralee Koopal | Year Posted 2025
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Caralee Koopal Poem
I am drawn to you as an alcoholic to a glass of whiskey,
I lift you to my lips taking a simple sip,
I pour you from the bottle I’ve enclosed you within,
Without fail,
Another day,
Another drink,
Why can’t I stop pouring,
Pouring and drinking from your glass?,
I put you in the bottle,
I expected you to stay there,
My selfish ways inscribe within,
Tip the bottle,
Unscrew the flask,
Giving hopelessly into your misery,
You comfort me while you take my life,
You steal me from my body,
You disconnect me from my conscious mind,
Who might I call upon to save me from the nothingness?,
No, I am not an alcoholic,
But as I tip the glass further,
Your solace becoming my pain,
Raise a glass to despair!,
Raise a glass to easeful torture!,
No, I am not an alcoholic,
But I am addicted to the ideals you present,
Please,
I beg,
Save me from myself,
Save me from inside,
Please,
I beg,
I do not want to be okay if this is what it means,
I do not want to be okay if okay belongs in your arms,
I do not want to be okay,
I want to survive,
Let me survive.
Copyright © Caralee Koopal | Year Posted 2025
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Caralee Koopal Poem
Shhh,
Don’t make a sound,
The silence surrounds the empty corridor,
My survival,
My being,
Resting on the line of your breathless words,
“I can take what I gave you,
I can ruin your life…”,
The thread of my hope comes unraveled,
Skin and bones,
Exposed to the despair,
Collapsing into the arms of a misleading decree,
The icy blade of your tongue’s sword,
Pressing onto my back,
I shiver facing the path,
The path we paved together,
If you are going to snap my neck,
Pierce my skin,
Break my bones,
And watch me fall,
Do it with grace,
I beg,
Shhh,
Don’t make a sound,
Quiet while you kill me,
For the faster it’s done the less pain it casts upon you,
Why do I care?,
Have you been plotting your deception for as long as you can remember?,
What was I,
But a feather in the breeze on a summer's afternoon,
Staying afloat to the words of your wind,
Quiet while you kill me,
For it kills me to cause you pain.
Copyright © Caralee Koopal | Year Posted 2025
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Caralee Koopal Poem
The swirling deep blue of the water before my pained eyes,
Reminding me who I am,
You stand next to me,
A single tear rolling down your porcelain face,
Glistening as it falls,
The water below the cliff catches it happily,
For it feeds on sadness,
Woe only causes it to prosper,
Causes it to grow,
You face me, a sad smile pulling at the corners of your lips,
You look as if there is something you wish to tell me, however, you don’t,
A frown is present from my features,
Without hesitation, your body falls into the sea below,
I scream, instantly jumping in after your faint body,
Frantic, I grasp your arm, holding your head above water,
Against the cold,
Against the current,
I hoist you back onto the ledge,
A cough, I hear from you,
My frigid body worried,
The coughing fit becomes that of laughter,
How could you be laughing at a time like this?,
“Help me up,” I call, concerned still,
I reach my hand up to yours,
You take it, holding tight,
As I’m near the surface, you let go,
“I knew you’d save me, but you were too naive to believe I’d do the same,”
Your voice rings out above the water,
As I struggle to stay above,
Your words drown out as my head tips under,
I saved you from the world of pain,
Consequently taking it upon myself,
You cannot drown me,
I smile,
For I drowned myself,
To save you from the water,
To save you from what lies within,
You cannot hurt me,
For I’ve already been hurt,
I’ve already been hurt,
Hurt to save you,
Drowned to keep you alive,
I drowned so you’d survive.
Copyright © Caralee Koopal | Year Posted 2025
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Caralee Koopal Poem
Individualistic philanthropy is a virtue to a spark,
A charred ember of your simmering soul,
Before me are those who surround my being,
My subconscious is present as I often drown myself to become what they require,
A sponge to their water,
To the oceans of their misfortune, I abode,
Days grow longer and I find myself no more able to absorb their words, the sea,
Upon my falter to the bottom I have gone,
Am I forgiven?
I could no longer obtain the torture your rain poured upon me,
My eyes, broken eyes,
My ears, deafened ears,
My advice oozing mouth, sewn shut,
Every cut and burn that taints my paper skin is thanks to myself and the glass of life,
Am I forgiven?
Broken and torn to shreds of who I may become,
I peeled skin from my bones to cover your scars,
Am I forgiven?
For I left all too soon to start anew,
For I forgot my roots in the collection of catastrophe this life of mine had been,
Tell me, I plead,
Am I forgiven?
For I have forgiven you.
Copyright © Caralee Koopal | Year Posted 2025
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Caralee Koopal Poem
Is it so pretentious of me to want to play a child’s game?,
Come on, it’s a tale old as time,
I spy with my little eye,
Tell me what you see,
Something red?,
Something blue?,
Could you be any more boring,
My turn,
I spy with my little eye,
A big white guy in a mask,
You see him too, right?,
Well of course you do!,
You’re the one who gave him the crown,
And handed him a gun,
What’s he need that for, huh?,
Oh, and by the way, did you hear about that chick Miranda?,
I heard she used to hand out a whole list of rights that were read at every arrest,
But these guys shot her dead,
They call themselves the I.C.E.,
But I think they’re just a bunch of modern day Nazi’s,
I even saw one guy with a swastika on his neck,
But it doesn’t matter because it looked a lot like the American Flag,
Okay I’ll go again,
I spy with my little eye,
Three bullet holes through the side of that mother’s face,
Didn’t you catch it?,
You couldn’t guess it when you watched the video on repeat?,
How far right are you?,
Or wrong, I suppose,
Okay, ready,
I spy with my little eye,
A five year old boy in a bunny hat,
Maybe it’ll match the striped pajamas they throw him in once he’s made it to the camp,
Bait,
I’d guess,
But that’s normal ain’t it?,
They told me it’s okay,
That this five year old was a drug lord and a violent criminal,
The worst of the worst,
So kill him,
And then kill me,
Because this game just seems to repeat,
And all I see are families being dragged into vans and sent away,
And picked up off the streets,
So tell me,
When are you going to open your eyes and see it too?,
Because I spy with my little eye,
Terrors in the streets we are not angry enough about,
Not even close to angry enough,
And when we elected the KKK leader into office,
Shouldn’t we have anticipated he’d be handing out pointy white hats?,
And waiting until the next thing we see is the cross burning in the street,
Because this is the justice that people were after,
Anything to not have to see a woman lead,
And I spy with my little eye,
The death of me,
The death of you,
And the death of being free,
The murder of the American Dream.
Copyright © Caralee Koopal | Year Posted 2026
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Caralee Koopal Poem
Wrecked, but still,
The quiet eminence of distrust buries itself deep inside of each one of us,
Whispering hatred in foreign tongue,
Until it becomes loud enough,
Not for us to hear,
No,
But for us to forget,
To assume that the voices were always there,
And of course I’m not suggesting,
That perhaps there is something wrong with our government,
Because horrible masked men have always been in charge,
Right?,
And I’m no Anne Frank,
But Hell,
I think I’m alive,
And I still remember that ten year old me knew it was wrong to be a Nazi,
Or a communist,
Or a confederate,
But who am I kidding?,
Ten year old me was so foolishly naive,
Not to understand that perhaps,
These stories weren’t a fictional dystopia from a land far far away,
But a poison painted over the stakes that hold white men up upon the cross,
A secret society of, “Sic Semper Tyrannis!”
And each stripe and star isn’t a symbol of freedom,
Because freedom is a sick, twisted joke,
And I’ve grown tired of waiting for the punchline,
But perhaps we are the comedy,
Bred into a world that wears racism, sexism, and murder like precious jewels,
And I guess, what I’m trying to say,
Is I’m tired,
And people are dying,
Trying to survive,
Dying to try,
Trying to die,
But foolish, prideful,
Masked men need to feel alive,
And perhaps the only way,
Is to take a life,
And now I must ask,
When will it be mine?
Copyright © Caralee Koopal | Year Posted 2026
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Caralee Koopal Poem
Through broken cries, we extend our tired arms to the tap,
Dirty, filthy palms,
As per request, we wipe them clean,
And wash again,
As if perhaps, by some chance,
It will make us white enough,
Clean of the heritage that paints the faces we once loved,
But as they tear apart the family tree,
Masked men on the streets,
We wish to know only peace,
A life we dreamed,
Screaming to be clean,
And the water runs over our hands,
Dirty, filthy palms,
As if rubbing them raw will remove the extra melanin,
Because we are not white enough,
Never white enough,
Not to be safe from being profiled on the way home from work,
Or school,
Or preschool,
Or daycare,
Where men who play God stop us and ask,
Where are you from,
What is your name,
Can’t you wash that off of your hands,
But sir,
This is my skin,
My body,
My sin,
And it no use to try to reason,
Because he is throwing us into an unmarked SUV,
Where I can do nothing but scream,
Scream and beg,
Beg to be seen,
Beg to be free,
But there is no such thing as freedom,
Or justice,
Or equality,
So God help me, if I don’t keep on scrubbing,
Cleaning my,
Dirty, filthy ing hands,
Because there is a chance,
That maybe it’ll make me white enough,
At least to walk past him on the street without so much as a passing glance,
And I’ll die on that hill,
Because this is all I have,
So I’ll clean them good,
I’ll clean them real good,
With bleach, and steel wool wires,
And I’ll try,
And try,
And try,
Ser lo suficientemente blanca,
To finally,
Finally,
Be white enough.
Copyright © Caralee Koopal | Year Posted 2026
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Caralee Koopal Poem
Tyrannical living, broken united,
They fly with the flock, simplistic survival,
They appease the oppressors by stepping on the oppressed,
They dance with the devil's advocate in a ballroom of marble made by poor bones,
Smiles and silence distract from the dark skin draped over stained glass windows,
They hold up a cross and pray for themselves,
For their riches and power and deceptive success,
We hold up a cross and pray for them all,
For the poor, the forgotten, the gray in between,
We pray for those whom they call worthless,
Whom they beat and they damn,
The corruption living within their ideals,
He is a man, an entity of fascism,
Lurking, holding society to the strings strung upon a puppet,
We must rise against society, all the passages of prejudice,
For the name of a president is spoken more than the names of your mothers,
We cry out with our need to be heard,
For all the women,
The sisters, daughters, wives, and mothers,
For all the children who have watched the glass of opportunity shatter,
For all of those denied the simple right to live,
Repudiated on the expression of whom people love,
Of those who choose who they are and who they want to be,
For everyone seeking refuge in a land meant to be free,
For all whose skin has ever caused discomfort to their impaired outlooks,
For anyone who prays to another, or prays to noone at all,
For all of you who harm the gray in between,
For all those who see the world as more than black and white,
The gray in between,
You are feeding the tyrants the dinner of a king,
Cry out to the Lord with words not of changing,
Pray they live, love, prosper as be,
Dancing is exhausting when your feet are tacked to the floor,
Living is a task when we are blinded with falsification,
Broken,
Unfree,
The gray in between,
Let the light in,
Let the light in,
The gray in between,
Will prosper,
For when they kill one, we die tenfold,
The gray in between,
Broken,
Unfree,
Shackled to the walls of their torment,
Strung to the chains of tyranny,
The gray in between,
Praying to be free.
Praying to be free.
Copyright © Caralee Koopal | Year Posted 2026
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Caralee Koopal Poem
Minutes into hours, hours into days,
Time ticks by, oppression wears the mask of altruism,
Dipping a brush into the blood of the innocent,
Painting a face of snow over the palm-greasing malfeasance your values are rooted within,
Strung together by the chains carved from the bones of our children,
We laugh in the face of grief while we whisper condolences in foreign tongue,
We are built on the massacre of men both metaphorically and etched into our skin like verbatim,
We are connected by the ignorance of our pale skin,
I am screaming at the sky asking when we became the killers,
Angry men throwing knives at the cross,
The babies born into a society where we are all being held at gunpoint,
Save only those who share your face,
The rule is simple, if you break it you’re no longer welcome here,
It’s easy, of course,
Once you’ve bleached the dye out of your garments,
Your body and face, uniform like the rest,
If we refuse, I can hear you click off the safety and press the barrel to my back,
In a place we are guaranteed life liberty and justice for all people,
It certainly feels as if we’ve been victimized since we took our first breath,
We didn’t ask for this,
To be unlike the rest,
We didn’t ask to care,
But we ask you now,
Why don’t you?,
If you are going to shoot me then you might as well pull the trigger,
I don’t know if this life is any better,
For all I do is watch you murder my companions, known and not,
You are a sick, twisted freak,
I am sick and tired of living and wondering if I’m going to fall next to the tyranny,
If one morning I will wake up,
Get dressed,
Go to the place I am meant to learn,
And never return back to my home,
Or come home with the blood of my classmates stained inside my mind,
Why don’t you care?,
They are killing your people,
But these people are not yours,
Tell me now, when are you going to take the scissor to your eyes and snip, snip them open,
And see the way the red stains your palms,
When are we going to quit glorifying your despotism?,
Silence us with your cleansing,
A cover up for killing,
Pocketing the lives of anyone who doesn’t fall to their feet and kiss your stupid boots,
The same soles you step upon people with,
The same souls in the pocket of false freedom,
I cry out,
Make it stop,
We are broken,
We are tired,
We are sick to our stomachs at the pain you get away with causing,
Again I cry,
Make it stop,
And I am screaming at the sky,
Make.
It.
Stop.
And I whisper into to the emptiness,
Make.
Him.
Stop.
Copyright © Caralee Koopal | Year Posted 2026
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