In this bubble;

Our fathers were built on fear, soaked and bathed in it.
They learned to give it a tight hug,
and it lived in as little as the dust running to the air, as if to take a shield in its nothingness.
So, we learned to put it in a place where it couldn't be.

You see, we opened our little eyes to the firm voice of our thalamus; whose screams were already too old to matter.
There was no fear here.
We had looked it in the face and sent it behind the walls,
Into uneven grains,
Beneath our fathers' feet.

The world welcomed us into scraps and grits,
Not whole enough to call a home,
Where our knees had enough room,
For a rifles feast,
and bullets, Kalashnikov and infidels,
Graced our books like the smile of a true mother.

This is our home,
Where cupcakes and lollipops,
were a beautiful flyer that has given in to sand and a few bullet holes,
Where mathematics existed outside assumption
And is solved only in war.

Here,we party hard.
Our parties are of the living and dead,
Of cranberry drinks made from blood
Here, play dates were a quick stop at the corner
For inventory from our parties
Everyday was like Cronus' insides,
One second hellos for damage reports,
One more second back into courage.

This is our home,
Where poetry is not enough,
Where fear is just a name,
Belonging to no one.