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Zoe Burnham Poem
It’s a funny thing, life
Like the tightrope we balance on, the maze we forage,
Poised and sharp like an edge of a knife
We scramble to keep up with life.
A puzzle we solve with struggle and strife,
Chasing the future, we hope to survive.
It’s a funny thing, family
We share our blood, our race,
Our genetics, our face.
Yet some grow up, only knowing a cruel touch
Some grow up to only hearing a… Shush!
Some grow up too young, face to face with discrimination.
And abuse, racism, confliction, lack of communication.
No money, no love, no education.
They leave us bruised and heartbroken.
“Home! This is our HOME!” But we go unspoken.
“Home? Where is my home?” We stand erodin’
It’s a funny thing, conformity
Labels and boxes, we shove ourselves in with a sense of uniformity
Organised and neat, with our qualities and beliefs shoved aside
Too messy to fit in your standards. Yet too low, I place mine.
Too loud for the library,
Too quiet in the crowd.
Too pretty to be ugly,
yet too hideous to be proud.
Too closed off to be out there,
Yet too out there to be in it.
Too judgy to be nice,
Yet too kind to be cruel.
So, we continue to shove and cram our insecurities and abnormities down,
Until we’re all hemmed in the same gown and forced to wear the same frown.
It’s a funny thing, civilisation
“Do this but don’t do that.”
We stand, we fall, we weep as one.
Yet we’re spoon-fed lies, taught myths as fact, we all know the worlds not flat.
We speak of peace but still wage war,
So, innocents die at the hands of hypocrisy trapped in a rich man’s lore.
Money is life, and death is a dream,
Beauty is your personality, and your individuality is not what it seems.
Judging eyes, sneering smiles,
pick through hearts, leaving wounds that last for miles.
We follow like sheep, never asking why,
Not seeing the edge—until it’s time to die.
It’s a funny thing, death
Its cold-blooded exterior, make our knees quake with dread
Although who can blame its softening whispers and warm embrace in our depth
It comes in tortured screams, or silent despair,
We fight, we flee—but in the end, he's there.
Coming in forms of blinding light to shadowed truths,
We accept him in the end, no matter the fight, we all end up in his roots.
But since it’s so funny, tell me why-
why no one laughed? Only heaved a sigh.
Laughing with tears in our eyes.
Copyright © Zoe Burnham | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Zoe Burnham Poem
Eyes: the window to the soul, the gate to your tears, the mirror of memories and of ghosts that linger near.
Eyes: some forever glazed by the blurring of sorrow, some haunted by the past and some cursed to hold tomorrow.
Eyes: the way you see the world, and the way the world sees you. Reflecting every colour, every shade, every hue.
Eyes: they see, they feel, they hear too close, too deep. Carrying unspoken stories, secrets they must keep.
Cursed or blessed, they blink, they stare.
Picking apart the world they view with a knowing, silent glare.
From lingered looks to stolen glances.
They depict, translate – every gaze enhances.
They light up, they sputter out, they glitter and glint or they dull and dim.
Holding laughter, pain and love trapped within.
So, don’t walk in someone else’s shoes-
look through their eyes, feel what they feel.
Only then will you understand:
Eyes hold much more than just tears.
Copyright © Zoe Burnham | Year Posted 2025
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