Email Poem

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Poem

Yes, I am a Native.
See my brown skin, my dark hair.
Come walk through my reserve,
Learn the truth, if you dare.
See this house,
This nice, big one right here?
Here an abused child sits alone,
Afraid to even  shed a tear.
Shall we continue our walk?
See that house, with the bright light?
Here a young boy watches his mother drink,
Waiting for her to start a fight.
Stop...Hear that noise in the woods?
Oh, it's just some kids smoking a joint.
Have you had enough truth yet?
Have you even begun to get the point?
Remember that lonely, abused child,
The little one so full of fear?
Well now he beats his kids and wife,
Then he celebrates with a beer.
And the young boy with his drunk mother
Now sits alone, wishing he would die.
As he punches hole into his wall
He wonders, would his mother even cry?
What about those little pothead kids?
Most of their lives are wrecks:
Jabbing needles into their arms, 
Spending all of their welfare cheques. 
We've come to the end of our tour.
You see, life on the rez isn't that great.
The people here no longer feel love,
Our home has become a land of hate.

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