I have been to places I cannot speak art as how it feels,
Words don’t escape me but the mere nature of the place blanks out Art
There are four roomed houses that we call our homes that are in the shapes of heart
Music escapes me in the place and conversation feel void of spoken word but words are in communication all day..
The slice of a tongue is there but its shredded
The might of a pen is a distant everyday battle raged but never won
The slash of a sword screams and lays on hopeful hills undisturbed
In busy corners like a street poet on a soap box chanting “the world is ending”
I’ve been born in a place been dying everyday living in a rehearsed haze
I live in a place like this and its deadly.
This place calls to me in hills I bury myself from rivers I’ve crossed
This place needs me and I’m always there
No one ever lives in this place
No one lives this place
But we echo as life everyday, we move about careless of perish which is imminent
This place I find hope stabbed in a street corner bleeding gasping for air
And everyone is suspect
Let them die where they lived the most
The place they have died in the most
The place they call home
Heartless out of this place but we have tasted freedom
And we want to leave this place.
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