"a poem for dzhokhar"

Amanda Palmer and husband
(author Neil Gaiman)

Somebody named Amanda Palmer writes:

a poem for dzhokhar 

April 21st

warning: hateful commenters trying to hack the blog by mimicking regular benevloent users’ names. please proceed with caution and respect. 

given the amount of controversy surrounding this blog, i wrote about the act of writing of the poem HERE if you’d like to read it. 

you don’t know how it felt to be in the womb but it must have been at least a little warmer than this. 

you don’t know how intimately they’re recording your every move on closed-circuit cameras until you see your face reflected back at you through through the pulp. 

you don’t know how to stop picking at your fingers. ...

you don’t know how orgasmic the act of taking in a lungful of oxygen is until they hold your head under the water. 

you don’t know how many vietnamese soft rolls to order. 

you don’t know how convinced your parents were that having children would be, absolutely, without question, the correct thing to do. 

you don’t know how precious your iphone battery time was until you’re hiding in the bottom of the boat. ...

you don’t know how it’s possible to feel total compassion in one moment and total disconnection in the next moment. 

you don’t know how things could change so incredibly fast. 

you don’t know how to make something, but the instructions are on the internet. 

you don’t know how to make sense of this massive parade. 

you don’t know how to believe anyone anymore. 

you don’t know how to tell the girl in the chair next to you that you’ve been peeking at her dissertation draft and there’s a grammatical typo in the actual file name. 

you don’t know how to explain yourself. 

you don’t want two percent but it’s all they have. 

you don’t know how claustrophobic your house is until you can’t leave it. 

you don’t know why you let that guy go without shooting him dead and stuffing him in some bushes between cambridge and watertown. 

you don’t know where your friends went. 

you don’t know how to dance but you give it a shot anyway.... 

you don’t know how to mourn your dead brother.

Think how much more peaceful and sensible the human race would be by now if psycho killers didn't make so many women want to have their babies.

Of course, contra Whiskey, it's the pretty boy younger brother, not the thuggish older brother, who has the poetess emitting poetry.

P.S. From the comments on the site of Ms. Palmer, who is in some kind of band:

A Poem For Martin Richard

by Willie Feo 

Martin wrote a project about World Peace while you were getting stoned and making bombs to kill him. 

Martin will never grow up and have a cool shaggy rockstar haircut like you. 

Martin won't have a misguided legion of foolish groupies mooning over how badly he was treated. 

Martin died with braces on his teeth. 

Martin's skinny little eight year old body was studded with nails and BBs that you stuck into him. 

Martin was blown apart in front of his mother and father who loved him. 

Martin's little sister lost her leg. 

Fuck you, Dzokhar and everyone who feels sympathy for you.