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Markell Brady-Whitfield Poem
The Tank by Markell Brady-Whitfield
The tank is powerful, for it is both the tank and the driver. It kills and also creates hope for a survivor. It creates actions which speak even louder than it, then is used to make amends once the bombs or bullets have hit. But just as the lives lost, the ammunition fired by this tank can't be taken back. The media uses the same ammunition to tell people's eyes whether to perceive the sky as a beautiful blue or a beastly black. This ammunition is fired not only against enemy nations, but also into ears to make you feel hesitation, happiness, anger, or the need to make a donation. The ammunition comes out not only the tank, but out of also sister, brother, man, woman, husband, and wife to end life. Or to make life, or to make strife. All this starts out in the brain. It's all created by necessity, want, good feelings or pain. It's all thanks to us, we start the compliments, the insults, the award ceremonies, the fights, the fuss. We design these tanks easily and decide what's serious and what's and game. We decide whether or not to take aim. Our mouth is the tanks opening where ammunition comes through, and be careful because sometimes we don't think before we pull the trigger that the strongest tank in this world is you.
Copyright © Markell Brady-Whitfield | Year Posted 2015
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Markell Brady-Whitfield Poem
The alarm clock goes off, she's slighty sick she releases a cough.
The bathroom has no water, outside it sounds like a slaughter.
A gunshot lets out a close fire, in fact the bullet gets caught in her tire.
But she walks outside shaking like she didn't just dodge that knocked down wire.
Suddenly the warring of the gangs, haters, and angry cease as they stare and long for her peace.
Her car won't crank, but this usually gloomy girls still gets a start in her heart.
She gets out and when she passed her neighbor has time to talk and the rest of her way to work, decides to moonwalk.
She thinks herself a worm, but today feels so beautiful she's admired by every hawk.
The streets are nasty and grimy, her flamin feet obliterates all the slimy.
She makes in the building, her boss usually hates but today gives a good morning with no warning.
She's not even surprised, the other workers are peaking from their cubicles and she's not even realized.
Then the birds, and bangers from earlier march in, and along with her co workers have one question.
What's up with you? What are you dancing to?
But she doesn't hear them like she's not even near them.
And nobody is offended by her lack off answer or the fact the fact she's not even a great Dancer.
Because now they're all addicted, not to the usual drugs but to her happiness and spirit
Because now they get what she's dancing to, they're joining in to the music and suddenly all of them can hear it.
But theirs isn't like hers, I can't explain it all there are so many they're to me just blurs.
What's important is now everyone gets to move, everyone's found their groove.
Everyone has something or somebody even if it's not a lot, see?
And everyone has now caught her contagious spirit, and to think in the beginning only she could hear it.
Copyright © Markell Brady-Whitfield | Year Posted 2015
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