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Ivan Brooks Sr Sep 2018
I'm not a writer trying to share a story,
I'm a survivor telling you a true story.
I'm not just a poet having fun and living,
I saw bad things when I was younger.
That was when things were harder.
when women and old people were helpless and young people were hopeless.
It was that time when good parents were powerless to protect their underage girls from **** and molestation at the hands of drugged-up child soldiers with bloodshot eyes.
I did something other boys were too scared to do,
I turned into a man
and took survival into my hands.
It was that time when men and women used the same place to bathe and go to the loo.

I saw many many hungry people
eating palm cabbage and wild grasses
malnourished children and dying people.
I saw hands chopped off with cutlasses.
I saw thousands of families separated
and fathers killed or incarcerated.
I saw silly young men pick up arms
and chopped off people's limbs
like hideous things were their aims.

I saw really bad things
and cried to God for wings
like an angel to fly away
because I saw no other way.
I saw people running to God
and getting murdered in his church.
I don't know, but he didn't say a word
It's like He just sat down and watch?

I saw bad things
I planned my escape from poverty,
from a war-torn country.
It was that time when your parents, who come from the same generation as I, were looking up to their mom's for breast milk.
It was that time when no one wore silk,
it was a time of fear,it was wartime.
It was that time when bullets determined eating time and bedtime.
It was that time when pretty boys had nothing in their wallets.
It was that time when PYJ ate dinner
and played gospel on his guitar like he was our savior and not a sinner.

© IvanBrooksPoetry
This is about my bad wartime memories from my war-torn native Liberia. This encompasses mere poetry,it's a true story of the hideous crimes committed by young drugged up child soldiers commandeered by the notorious warlord, Prince Y Johnson(PYJ)..this is in essence, not a poem,it's an extension of the untold stories of the Murdered peoples of Liberia and women and girls ***** and abused by this heartless murdered, still running free and enjoying's for the most part, a poetic version of their cries ...This is a true story of the two hundred and fifty thousand innocent souls lost in my country...this a cry for Justice!
Ivan Brooks Sr Feb 2018
High up above our war-torn city,
On Snapper hills sit the old lighthouse.
For years in storms, she did her duty
Rain or shine without any kind of excuse.

High above our beautiful sandy shores,
Just like a good mother, she watches
not only over vessels but those
Who lost hopes and suffered all kinds of damages.

The light she flashes has for years,
Served as a perpetual beacon of hope
For those with bad memories and fears,
those traumatized by wars who still can't live and cope.

High above Monrovia, she stands
Watching the resilient people below
Survivors of the deadly Ebola strands
Who once refused to bow their heads low.

High above she sits, beyond the Montserrado basin.
At night her light remains the star of the city,
That has endured moaning and crying,
A city that has seen the good, the bad and the ****.

The old lighthouse still stands there today,
directing maritime traffic at night
and flashing light over our beloved city
That for years witnessed a ****** and senseless fight.

For 17 years brothers fought and killed each other...she just stood and watch, unable to do a thing.
Ivan Brooks Sr Jan 2018
One day God created the Heavens and Earth and Sonewen
From that impoverished Ghetto came great men and women
And from her shores came Zogos that are nationally notorious
Yet from in one blessed home came a child bound to be famous.

From His Throne he saw that his handed works was very good
So In every households He placed a family to populate the hood
And so from sunrise to sunset, their faces glowed with happiness
Yet it was from one blessed home came a poet bound for greatness.

One day the rumours of war began to echo on the playgrounds
It was December and arid heat had just dried up the muddy ponds
As far as the eyes could see, stranded frogs hopped and jumped
Signs the history of the Sonewen ghetto was about to be transformed.

Transformed it did because in her, the elements of war found a safe haven
Exacerbated by war, compounded by poverty still to God she said Amen
Trusting in Him to bless and bring prosperity according to his divine favors
So from this humble child comes a big thank you for answering his prayers .
Sonewen is my hood in central Monrovia,Liberia,the ghetto that produced the mother of Africa's only winner of the world' best footballer title George Weah, now it's newly elected president...from this blessed ghetto comes one poet bound for greatness..ME !
Minuscule Ego Mar 2015
Oh sweet land of liberty,
Land of milk and honey,
The rising sun,
The sun among nations,
Let your light so shine among us,
Oh beloved land of the free,
Shine bright for all to see,
Be cherished and gratify.
The rising sun,
Let your true colors emits independently,
Donating its own truth among us,
Burn bright, stand brave,
Lament no more, arise,
Change has come,
Brighten our cave,
Emits your rays,
Elevate us all,
Be that nation among nations
Oh mama Liberia,
You are the rising sun.

— The End —