The Sober Truth of My Land
Am I missing some thing.Do I misunderstand,as a witness I stand,witnessing the folly and madness of my land. For the devilish materialistic feel of cash in their hand,they will cut the hand of their brother man.All just to conquer the materialistic land,of jewels and the delight of the upper hand.To grandstand.As a man I need to see the youth and the children prosper, on my land not to be grown and groomed by the devils deceptive hands,hugging our land with both arms and both hands.We blindly,hug him back and eat from his hand.Falling into hells quick sand,then have the audacity,to ask what happened to my land and my children,damn.Yet this is my land,but among it all I stand with a paper,pen,rum and a half burnt cigarette,in my trembling hand.Trying to understand the waste,breakage,contagious,venom spewing,disadvantageous,ways of corruption leads and impedes my land.Yet I take firm stand,trying to understand. My home is my land I contemplate the people of my land,as my mind runs through my land,my heart beats to understand the bleeding and dying of my land.Young people die for no sensible reason,body's drawn out frequently with white chalk every bloody season, because of a color they believe in, and the gangsters that survive, they survive but not breathing,because of all the material,drugs and music they believe in,thus it destroys life's true meaning.It leaves the better inner self bleeding and dreaming for a dosage of truth, but no that's so aloof from our youth. So there stuck with old lies and a sweet corruption that rottens their tooth.The soil that their soiled in rottens their roots and the music that they listen to obfuscates and never relates to the truth.Their future is dim,their chance is slim.The boys want to be tu pac and the girls lil kim.Everybody wants to be a actor,in a gangster film. So I just sit back and watch the show, you know,to watch and see how far they go.I watch gangsters barely survive,not even making it to the age of twenty five leaving behind a single mother to cry.I see people sell drugs just to get by and consume the same drugs just to get high,to fabricate their emotions with the feeling of a temporary high.I seen the toughest of the toughest guys, fold in a withering cold and die,as hopeless blood leaks from their inside,along with every single lie they supported to survive.My home is Queens new York.
Contest Name MY LAND IS MY HOME
Sponsor ~ SKAT ~
Copyright © Elliott Bowe The Drunken Poet | Year Posted 2012
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