I died twice seven times.
Been at the gate selling lies.
Felt surprised by the odds of
the dice that were smitten,
no price, polarised, unforgiven
by the time these rhymes are
Our pride was beridden.
Unless it meant covering up the
deaths of my brothers I guess.
I yearn to feel less.
From my pinky to my thumb
i’ve felt numb just like the souls
who were dumb enough to encourage
this and succumbed to nourish bliss
and still feel proud.
My heroes failed to put their foot down
like the football on the ground in front
of them when they look down in shame
as the rain mixes with their tears as they
present their countries to the crowd.
Cheering just as hard as the screams of
our families’ pain out loud.
The classes are so far apart, they’ll never
understand why I wonder how the grass is
still green after all the bloodshed and the
offset pounding of our hearts.