The Poetry Soldier

A very passionate poem in a spoken word style...

The Poetry Soldier

Memories boil to the surface,

toxic to a crippled mind.

Gathering bits and pieces of what's left of her

from the explosion of her fragility…

never once heeding to the advice of others 

to watch out for warfare,

she got caught up as a militant...

Blindly running across valley's,

bleeding tears of defeat,

searching for solace in the moon,

but not resisting the scorching hot sun

which blistered her once smooth soul...

The journey led her right back to home,

a new discovery emerging

as her pain glided effortlessly across the pages

of a free therapy canvas,

passion drumming incessantly on a keyboard.

Her hands a separate entity

from her fiery eyes,

which gazed forward

into a portal where her anger

sent shockwaves through his bones, tissue,

and muscles, which make up the totality

of only flesh and physicality,

absent of substance.

Papers are tossed,

mixed with tears and regurgitation of

the past which created malaise

to the sheltered woman who had inhabited her...

who had been cracked open...

spilling her yolk, which was devoured with

voracity, and then spit out.

His face is etched across the pages.

Each stanza is his eye gazing--

and she smiles because he is locked

in her imagination, the power surging

through her pen.

Her sigh is his breath releasing meaning

to each literary attempt to purge

the swords that have cut her insides.

Yet who is she?

Who is he?

He came inside so fast,

sending her across miles and valleys

and land mines, and the deepest trenches,

just to wind up home,

seeking to patch up cuts and bruises with words,

bathing in the gift of self expression,

wonder caressing her skin...

Yet who was she?

The evening of self-discovery dawned on her

the night rain pelted down,

and the moon shone high.

As she stepped into the unknown room,

she met the microphone which aimed

at her hesitating lips.

The flickering flames from the candlelight

coincided with the fiery passion

they held inside them…

They all cheer, they want to her to pour

out her soul.

She recites her rhyme,

handing out her wealth to desperate souls,

being a victim of poverty so long,

her stomach ached with hunger for love,

scraping her identity off the ground like handouts,

she expressed herself freely...

Hands come together in applause,

her heart had been exposed,

and she says one last cry to the

face etched in her mind,

the one who set up the battlegrounds of her

bloody war:

Thank you.

I know who I am.

Although you took me through the depths of hell,

you made me who I am...

Who am I?

A soldier!

One who is stronger and wiser because of you,

able to turn your weapons into my muse

for everyone to meditate upon...

a positive reincarnation.

Somewhere you are cowering, while I stand tall,

my spine rigid, my tongue sharp,

the applause loud,

and it's all because of you.

So once again, I thank you.

For making me a Poetry Soldier...

by Kena SunGoddess Dawn