I scrawl through the paper

I tick boxes, I vote for

Myself, 16+,

Living with parents, student

Still, nationality.

Now there’s a thing you could

Say I’m tongue – tied.

How do I explain to a census,

I don’t wish to be the fool

Of a nation I am.

Should I try to cheat – pick

Other – I’m a quarter Irish –

After all, I’m not full fool.

I could put British, a good

Old sport – that’s the language

I droll around. The British

Lady – struts in scarlet,

Shoots a noble creature to

The ground, sends a war cry.

Or shall I write English,

There’s a thought, then I could be

Anyone, the books are open

Who wants to be English today?

It doesn’t matter if you’re

Really different inside.

It doesn’t matter if you’d

Shoot us all, blow up

Our souls, nuke our hearts.

It doesn’t matter because these

Days – anyone can be English.

So what do I put for me,

I can’t leave it un-ticked,

That would be too hard to

Explain – to an English census.

Just the feeling of happy

Surprise, no more dissapointing

Moments uncommonly placed

Through terror ridden children.

Bobbles of plastic speared

With tiny knives supplied to

Learning minds, cut paper, cut

Wrists, torn notes on nothing left.

Just a glance between brown

Ephiphanys of emotion hidden

From something wanting to break.

Steps echoing down the hall

Concrete pressed sounds bounce

Intensly off vibrations inside

Let him go screaming pain.

Just the final shout as its

Too late, waving from the

Dark interior of the bus,

Light reflects, hiding my face.

Lifting up to look as it pulls away

Eyes meet once more

Mournful urges pitifully dieing

Just a moment before I lost him.