Sunday, 23 December 2007

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  I never sleep alone

  It always me, maybe Ray, and the others

  It’s always those pictures/ those facts /numbered systematically

  Those causes posted onto Facebook/ Myspace/

  Flyers/ Petitions/ and campaign Ads /

  Posters passed out and pinned onto walls

  The bellowing sounds of angry/ educated/ misguided/ low maintenance revolutionaries

  Begging in quads across America for someone to give a damn/ I give a damn

  I never sleep alone

  I walk with battle scars

  Battle scars that cut into skins/ cut into concepts/ cut into discussions/

  We are battling a million misconceptions/ battling bottoms of bottles/ battling images of one’s self as a child/ we’re battling the imperfections of  ourselves as humans/

   unsure, we’re renewing the battle against drugs/ and the battle against racial discrimination/ the battle against obesity/ and the battle against cancer/ the battle of the nations/ the battle for survival

  Battle scars/are etched

  into the skins of mentalities/ battles for the truth about morality/ battle for the truth of our spirituality/ we battle

  “where is my revolution, where are my revolutionaries”

  I sleep with blood dried and caked to my clothing/ popular politics crawl into bed and hold me/ and we make love like  missionaries/ three to four to six times a lifetime/

  we pray/ force those we know to change minds/ God will only save those who cross to our side/ we say/

  I pray to keep from mourning/ but some things keep me questioning the shadows of children in my closet/

  They sing in the dark/ like lost hymns from dusty old bibles

  “All hail the motherland!”

  I forget how to smile being caught in the last breath of a child

  There thousands upon thousands of children marching / too young but that doesn’t matter/ they’re marching with battle scars/ they’re marching over there/

   they’ve given up hope despite  the whispers of their mothers, saying ”Pray Hard!”

  Thousands upon thousands of children are battling streets/ battling guns/ battling bullets thrown into them/ and they can’t go home/

  battling fears / battling darkness/ which is eating away at the innocence of war stricken/ they are fighting with blood against the very principles of the man who started this/ and they’re not Christian/ neither are their parents/

  It never was, is not, and will never be their religion/ they’ll die for the things they believe in/ and we just might be the ones killing them/ these kids who aren’t Christian/ I hear loud voices in small churches condemning them/

   and these children are battling American kids in American camo/ the terrorists now bred in our own beds/and I’m not trying to blame you, just thought you should know what’s being done in your name/ in my name/ it is thing I cannot respect/

  They are echoes

  Sounds of laughter drowned by gunshots to the head

  They are soldiers

  Young enough to be my children

  Marching across the hemisphere

  Forgotten where home is / just trying to get there

  Blood spattered across their eyelids

  He can’t see for all the smoke still coming from the barrel/ eight years old/ he marches not for pride but for survival/ they call him Sgt. Man Killa/ little sgt. Man killa, kill a man please, another man’s son shall die on his knees/ bleed till he’s free/ bleed / bleed/ till he’s free/

  She/ she don’t scream/ because screaming gets you no where/ 12years old/ and he’s ripping off her underwear/ she inhales smoke and heavy sweat/ she will march/ walk kinda like her sister use to/ rock her hips if it gets her another day or two/

  she chooses then to walk amongst the living dead/ she’d rather stay fed/ laid out before mongrels/ banged into broken beds/ she inhales darkness/ floats till she gets back to the Goddess/ when God is nowhere to be found/

  And our men they are shaking/ they don’t see children

  They see summaries of lifetimes locked into babies eyes/They march never knowing when they will come home/ I never sleep alone

  There are thousands upon thousands of people who walk every day with battle scars / callused over their mortal bodies/ hidden beneath polite conversation / behind closed doors/ and family traditions/

  I’ve made it my mission to heal / to not forget/ but clean the wounds until closure comes closer/ and for me that means discussing the children

  I have seen the men on scraped knees praying for justice/ for guns/ for the Creator to protect their sons

  I sleep with one eye open/ just in case something from the tv screens/ some scene from CNN or Darfur comes out and towards me/ mud clung to the dark stained skin of nightmare walking/

  I hear them like hollow echoes/ rushing/ screaming in the corners of churches/ huddled together/ raised voices and shots that cut through bodies and into history/

  Where are my revolutionaries/

  Ghosts hover above me/ inside me/ these genocides redesign me/

  I question my place in society

  Am I/ Should I/ How can I do something/

  But I’ll think about that in the morning/

  I never sleep alone

   

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