“Government Property” – a spoken word poem

By Kira

When I kiss my lovers or my friends, see my brothers off to soar,

I forget for a second that their lives are put on the line or that Arlington is filling up to the brim with teenage boys that fought in this fucked up war.  It’s only a matter of time until more officers show up at my door, for America, you whore.  But don’t get me wrong, I support our troops, but I do not support this sell-out bureaucratic brainwashed bully that this nation is.  I do not support an America that is founded on the lust for blood and dollar bills.  That gets its fix from far-fetched fantasies of national security and bringing home pieces of mutilated soldiers full of bullet holes from their own guns with eyes so full of truths that nineteen year-olds should never know.  I knew you would be a casualty even if you didn’t come home in a body bag.

If you want revolution,

Give me hope.

You might not see that I have cancer in these bones.  This skeletal system is rotting from the inside out from doubt.  This foundation is gone, integrity intact, but mere patchwork.  That could have been me; just one more hick lost overseas.

You want revolution,

stand in the street and declare it so.  Pound your fists until they bleed on the pavement and the doors of politicians.  America, support our troops and bring them home.  Bring them home and massage respect into their tired strung out shoulders.

Because mainstream media packed with body counts, infomercials, bombings, celebrity diet secrets unveiled, civilians slaughtered, reality television, secret Swiss bank accounts, toothpaste.  We have become complacent.  Our eyes are unable to see.  The headlines in the newspapers blur and our hearts are heavy and numb.  Now a days, I’ve got my chest bound, wound real tight.  Cause I’m gonna fight the fight of my life.  Contra la corriente.  Yo digo, Choose peace again!

I can feel it in my core; I can feel it in my marrow,

That we’ve gotta kick this habit of flapping our fucking lips and backing it up with tanks about matters that we don’t understand, that we can’t begin to comprehend.  We’ve stepped on other countries and trampled over our brothers’ boundaries—all in the name of justice.  America, she has a sickness and it ain’t free.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s