Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Apr 2021
My folks cut off my roots.
I almost never knew that
I’m just four generations removed
From fighting with Pearce.
Six from being born into genocide.
“Ar scath a cheile a mhairean na daoine.”
I was placed on dead men’s shoulders.
Great men, terrifying men.
But they’re not here, where are they?
That’s a weird question, here.
I don’t pray enough.
Hardly ever touch a rosary.
Most others don’t even consider the act.
But that’s all there is for the last of us.
If there are any.
Unless we’ve all outlived
The last American Irishman.
Tyler
Written by
Tyler  23/M/Arizona
(23/M/Arizona)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems