This is what we get
We know suffering like the back of our palms
We know the smell of death better than our farms
We know war in sick flesh
We know it is in the agonizing screams of mothers and babes
We know it is in the guns of soldiers that ever remain fresh
Home is a divided populace of meaningless greed
Home is pessimism
Our fathers fill their bottomless cups with speed
They keep pouring, cup after cup until their eyes form a prism
This bizarre world do not motivate our mothers to chip in counsel
Our families hang loose on the rope of half-light
We are left to form roots lighter than parcel
We remain buried in the dark, yet they call us children of light
What are roots if they strangle you?
Who are ancestors if all they do is worsen your narrative?
Home at this point is a suspect
Our beautiful eyes fear the world
We shower them with tears to keep them from running away
The fear in our hearts leave the future crooked
And whenever we arrive we begin to mend it till we pass away
Home always arrives late
Most times life cannot solve the problems
It saves it for later
And later is so soon
That now becomes far from sight
When war howls, we run
When hunger jabs, we run
When death comes, we run
Then dark morning skies release vultures that visit, venerate and vacate the lifeless
Home is a wasteland
Dear fathers that sleep with guns but would never hold their children
Legacy will never do your jobs
To our lovely mothers that need support but never have time for their children
The money will never connect the creator
Our names will but are heavy bricks that crush our bones
You will turn our lives into ice cream cones
Home is a worldly purgatory and what we get is silence
Chris-Augunus Anyanwu
©2019
This is really good😘
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