Dodging Bullets

I gradually wake up to the smell of burning incense & hearing my parent's voices on an old karaoke machine. I sit up to rub my eyes as their voices intertwine into a sweet melody. Having heard stories of the khmer rogue war stuck inbetween their native tongue, their encounters of flying bullets reminds us to move to the rhythm of every beat. They danced together on this foreign land knowing it's far from perfect, yet they were taught to make the best out of these situations. I seem to remember the early mornings at the temple. I start by praying for better days, as my mind wonders off to think if I'm even worthy of that. Bent out of a position, my leg fills up with static as it falls asleep to the sound of chanting monks. My eyes eventually becomes a television screen, it connects to my broken surround sound system where my stomach rumbles out of hunger. The sound echoes across the room as the embarrassment carries me outside. Strange. I see a monk discreetly smoking a cigarette, he puts out the ashes on the holy ground. He stares back at me and exhales a cloud of nicotine addiction onto my face. The remaining second hand smoke kills my appetite, it buries what's left of my happiness in it's place. My thoughts becomes a new warzone. It tells me to start dodging bullets.