Black Poetry : Epilogue

Discussion in 'Black Poetry - Get Your Flow On!' started by Eric Mitchell, Apr 23, 2004.

  1. Eric Mitchell

    Eric Mitchell Active Member MEMBER

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    EPILOGUE


    I sit here slowly bleeding to death. I am a proud warrior who has been in battle after battle. In my youth, I walked through killing fields deep within concrete jungles collectively known as "The Big Apple". In those fields I proved myself time after time in many life and death situations; that is until I reached a point where I had earned the right to spit out the remaining slice of the poisoned fruit that my circumstances had forced me to feed upon. My victory is that I survived the killing fields, wounded but intact. I left that to put on a government uniform, and pretended to let them teach me how to kill; something that I had learned many years prior. My time as a government issue weapon of war was refreshing compared to what I had already been through, so I used it to rest. My body whole once more, I moved on. My next campaign was intense. I went to war against my own ignorance and came through it with highest honors. Newly decorated, I signed on for this war. This war seemed to be no different from those I had fought in my past; me being led by clueless commanders until I revealed to them my technique for winning. But this war is different. These commanders use a technique that I am not familiar with, and they use it against their own troops. It seems that somewhere along the way, as you continuously hand them the keys to victory, they deploy an edged weapon attack so quick and so stealthily, that it doesn't even damage your shirt. You won't even feel the wounds until you think it's time to receive your victory honors. I should have known better. One of the first things you learn in battle is to watch your back. You have to give them credit for such a flawless attack. I have the strongest urge to render a most proper salute, but I won't, because any sudden moves on my part could cause them to attack. I couldn't survive another such attack in my weakened state. I don't know what hurts more, the wounds in my back that won't heal, or the pain of betrayal. I sit here slowly bleeding to
    death.

    By Eric Mitchell
     
  2. queentswana

    queentswana Well-Known Member MEMBER

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    Wow...that was knee-deep....through the entire poem, I was bleeding too. this touched my heart and soul. I can surely relate to the war going on...before the war.
    Thank you so much for sharing such a wonderful piece...looking forward to more.
     
  3. $$RICH$$

    $$RICH$$ Lyon King Admin. STAFF

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    very deeply pose'd poet i felt the blood running within me
    express on
     
  4. watzinaname

    watzinaname Well-Known Member MEMBER

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    Wow...Your words made us hurt as well. Those back stabbing pains are intense, they try to break your soul.
     
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