Heritage

by goodsitizen

Watch as I sit here and light this up,

darkness fades casting shadows on blood stained walls.

Thinking of thoughts while feelings are stuck,

actions harboured and tied to docks,

anchored at sea and drowned in locks.

No traceable words from brothers that be,

food for thought but no degrees.

Ancestors with a shovel, drinking for trouble,

passed out on a Sunday face down in the psalms.

Only hope for salvation is writing my wrongs.

Vengeance is golden when your heart is so cold and

resistance takes brains and time and resolution.

Can you hear the words your brothers do not preach?

Can you hear the words your family does not teach?

Do you feed off the stares when you walk down the street?

See their pupils dilate,

brow perspirate,

pace fluctuate.

Is it a fair assessment of indoctrinated reviews?

Follow this will; thoughts can stay in your pews.

Does love flow as easily as this, with these words and feelings of lost beliefs?

Hurried screams heard from where your ancestors sleep,

letting their work all fall to the street,

succumbing to emotions, blue collar soul, lost with no purpose awaiting the fall.

Is this how it goes when the words are for nothing?

Not a soul understands them, am I the last one surviving?

I heard your kids died long ago when you stopped having dreams.

You gave up, gave in, and gave out ‘love’ on the street.

Your child screams back from a distant place,

“why did you give up on our home, on this face?”

Take these lessons and write them down in pen.

Read them over and over until you forget,

history proves it again and again.

No crops, no roads, no lay of the land.

You and I are doomed,

doomed my friend.