Once upon a time
World was not in peace
Wars happened everywhere
Women and kids were all sad
Husbands and dads
Joined the wars and dead

There was one kid
He saw what he saw
His dad was killed
They slit his throat and laughed
That violance somehow
Embedded something in his heart

Years passed
He is a grown man now
World is still the same
Wars still everywhere
He survived somehow
He is still alive now

As a grown man
He wanted to serve his country
A dangerous but safe ground
Where his dad was killed
Where a lonely kid grew up

He worked ******* skills
And joined so many wars
He danced in each war
With his beautiful partner,
His sword

Whenever he saw violence
He was terrific then
But now he's not
To **** enemies is a must
To protect the ground he lives in is a must

There is nothing he terrific of
He saw the worst possibility of violence
His dad was killed! They slit his throat!
He is a cold hearted worrior

"Don't beg for life when you **** people,
Don't beg for sympathy when you have none"
Those ices embedded in his heart
Made him a merciless man
They killed his parents with no doubt
The same way will he do

He is the cold hearted worrior
He lives with his sword
He is living in wars.

He said, "Right now I'm gonna cut you into pieces."
He put my mother in a bag,
While my father was still sleeping.

The crosses and flags lay on the floor
The crosses and flags lay on the floor
The crosses and flags lay on the floor
The crosses and flags lay on the floor

My tears oh how they bleed mercy,
And I can't seem to find any of my sisters.

"Before this day, I never knew hatred...."
Were the last words of my grand mother,
She was too sweet for human hunger.

8/2/11

(c) 2011 Brandon Antonio Smith

In the bag of death he lay,
all zipped up, here to stay.

Upon his toe, there hangs a tag,
Dead on Arrival, lies on the slab.

Eyes closed shut, red everywhere.
Taken away,  nobody cares.

His pain is gone, he cries no more.
Silence is simple, down to the core.

Shot in the chest, wouldn't you know?
Another victim is gone named John Doe.

I've never felt a red rose,
never pricked myself on a thorn,
never smelled it in or got lost in eyes.
My mother has a red rose -- my father gave
it to her, and it is beautiful, and it is kind, and it
is loving, and it is something I have  never  seen.

This  pink  rose  is  something  trying  too ­ hard to be red.
Slashing and  ripping  at clothes  with  sharpened  words,
claiming it’s  merely  the  thorns  of a red. This pungency
is blamed upon  me:  I can  not  handle  the  sickly sweet
succor stuck under my  suffocating  nose. He holds  me
by the chin, condemning eyes borrowing into mine, grip  
tightening. This pink rose is dead, withered, wilted
and weathered by the storm we’re caught in.
Everyone sees  red  where there is none

--  o r   p e r h a p s   t h a t ’ s   j u s t   t h e   b l o o d  ?  --

this pink rose has me trembling,  fearing
his appearance and his eyes; knowing
he’s   stronger   than   me,   but   the
uncertainty of “would he?” scares
me more. I can’t leave because
that same knife he used upon
me, he threatens his own
skin. It’s such  a  small
world, such  a  small
town, such a small
neighborhood,
such a small
building.

I can’t walk these  halls
with  comfort  or  safety
anymore, not with those
eyes burning blame into
my    back    and    face.

Looking at the world
through acidic eyes.
Thunderstorm kisses,
pouring through dark skies.

Bands of rage and temper,
feelings all caged in.
Powder keg explosives,
blowing up again.

Black and blue circles,
hid under the cloth.
Red drips from my nose,
broken at all cost

Ripped down at the seams,
by every human thread.
Abandoned and afraid,
wishing I was dead.

This abuse is without visible scars:

the coppery blood
is that of a broken heart
pooling around me,
craving to drown me
even as we join as one --

the throbbing bruises
are that of spoken words
sprouting like flowers
seeking to consume
even as he spreads me open --

the suffocating broken bones
are that of the fear
filling my lungs,
burning my nose like acid
even as he kisses me --

the deafening tears
are that of threats
ringing and screaming inside,
stealing any other sound but him
even as he makes me laugh --

the blinding black eye
is that of isolation
wrapping tight ‘round me,
sewing my eyelashes together
even as he glances my way --

But you can’t see it, so is it really there?

You greeted me with your smile.
You greeted me with your kindness.

I started to really fall for you.

You blinded me with your love.
You blinded me with your care.

I started to really love you.

You pushed me on the bed.
You pushed me against the wall.

I started to really resent you.

You broke my arm once.
You broke my heart many times.

I started to really hurt inside.

You cut me with your words.
You cut me with your fist.

I don't want to bleed no more.