Yes, I love myself.

Plain and simple, straight to tbe point.

I am the hardest working person I know. I believe in myself and in other people. I’m realistic about life. I know I will die one day, one day soon if we keep letting adolescents in Politics. Yes, I know I have sinned, but haven’t we all? But it’s knowing what to say when you are asked that question is the key. There is only one person you have to give the answer to. Everyone else is irrelevant. Yes, I love myself, faithfully.

She looked up at me as she cried.

I gave her a hug and wiped her eyes.

I saw a fear in her that couldn’t be explained.

How do I tell her she would never see her father again?

Dear child, why do you cry and weep?

God has come and rocked your father to sleep.

He knew you would come to see him and not realize,

why he’s not talking to you, and he apologizes.

He told me to tell you, he will see you again one day.

Don’t worry about him, in the time that he is away.

He said he will watch over you, and watch you grow.

He said he will be at every graduation and ballerina show.

He told me that you might not see him because he has to hide.

He said name your favorite teddy bear after him and put him on your side.

So whenever you need to talk to him, or need a fatherly bear hug.

You can hug this bear from your father sent with his love

In the dream, I'm walking

hands stuffed way into my jeans,

fall leaves whirling on the sidewalk,

lampposts humming white light,

through the town where I went to college.

I'm looking at the rented house windows

and there's a few yellow empty squares—

but there's no parties going on. There's no

CD player blaring reggae, no

guys from freshman sem, no

girls with plaid shirts tied around their waists who want to talk to me, no

piles of crushed plastic cups.

Only the shadows of the boulevard trees from the streetlights.

I realize I'm alone, too. There's no one to

remind the group that 3rd and Elm has a keg,

drop a cigarette in the grass and lose it,

punch a stop sign and clutch their face in pretend injury.

As the raw emptiness and indifference of time hits me

(it's an ache, a squeezing of the eyes)

and I wake, for a moment

I understand Gatsby completely, understand

that there's nothing to make you whole.

Not here.

America as we know it,

is free and brave.

It started with all americans

living in caves.

People were born,

buildings were built.

From Adam and Eve to babies in quilts.

One blink of the eye,

one hand in the air,

Let's people know that America will always be fair.

Elected officials are Americans too.

Be it telling a lie,

or what they are speaking is true.

Yet, somehow racism always has the lead.

A simple democracy that dropped us to our knees.

A cry for freedom, a hand in the air,

a baby being born, a predjudice stare.

America why me?

I thought all were free.

Wasn't this the reason,

God shed his grace on thee?

History is on the side of the victors.

Yet, victory only speaks of prosperity.

Victory does not expose

The cruelty disguised

Behind the veneer

Of freedom and justice.

“We the people

of the United States,”

Establish a false hope.

The hope of liberation;

Of freedom and justice.

Built broken. Never fixed.

“I pledge allegiance”

to the “one nation,” divisible.

False promises of unity.

Preached, but difficult in practice.

No “liberty and justice for all.”

Divided we stand.

“O beautiful for spacious skies,”

That hides the separation,

Discourse, and Uncertainty.

The illusion of “brotherhood”.

Inequality, injustice, unrest,

“From sea to shining sea!”

Is it possible to fix something

Broken beyond repair?

Well, that’s the American dream.

Start from the bottom up.

But, break down the walls,

and what do you get?

A nation poisoned at the roots.

If only I could hear with Whitman’s ears

But for me, there is no singing

There is no pride in work that is undervalued and underpaid

No humanity in a CEO who squirrels away billions

For yachts or private islands or whatever that much money can buy

While his workers starve and his fellow citizens die from a virus

That’s only served to further line his designer pants pockets

He profits from our collective misery

If only I could hear with Whitman’s ears

But when I listen all I hear are the cries

Cries from the souls whose backs are broken

From the weight of this nation's foundation

From the mothers whose babies were stolen from their arms

Whose bodies were torn apart to make way for more stealing

Of half-white children and dignity and spirit

From the mothers whose babies are still being stolen

In the streets, in their homes, in their cars

It doesn’t really matter where when its here

In America

Sometimes I do hear tones

As I loafe and stare at those summer blades of grass

But they’re so dissonant

Carols of sorrow in a minor key at best

A cacophony of rage with no melody at worst

Where everyone is singing different lyrics

And half the people don’t know how to read music

They hate genres they’ve never really listened to

They don’t know that good music lifts you up

The more I think about it

I'm sure I never liked that Whitman song anyway

It sounds like the kind of mass-produced pop

That’s catchy at first, but then you can’t get it out of your head

It burrows into the back of your brain and you find yourself humming

When you’re in the shower, or driving your car or trying to sleep

You can’t seem to escape it

You know the kind of song I’m talking about

The backing track is the din of the machine

Droning on and on and on

Sure, there’s pride to be had in creation

But the pride is in the way it makes you feel

Not the way it fills your wallet

You don’t have to monetize every hobby you have

For it to have value

Its value is intrinsic

Made by you for you

Whitman sang another song, a song of himself

And if it was still a chart topper

Maybe everyone wouldn't have missed the part where

He implored us to live for ourselves

Instead of being told what to feel or like or think

Chances are the world will unfurl before you

Like a flower in that summer sun

If you let it

For now, all I know is

I can’t live without music

So how do I go on living here?

I languish and get lost in my dreams

Where the pipes are callin’

Not for my death, but my rebirth

Across the Wild Atlantic

Where those blades of grass are literally greener

They say home is where the heart is

And my heart’s not in it anymore

I'm sorry Walt

My throat's too sore to sing, and

I need a cup of tea

-----

Note: Prior to this challenge, I wrote some other poems inspired by America. If you'd like to read them, you can find them at:

https://theprose.com/post/399067/a-slam-poem-for-america https://theprose.com/post/404355/this-is-america

https://theprose.com/post/405400/cave-screaming

Ding dong, ring the bell, someone call the doctor

Cause she’s bleeding out her wrists and her eyes are closed slits.

Somebody call the doctor

Cause America is bleeding.

Someone call the doctor

Can no one hear me screaming?

Someone call the doctor

Cause I think I’m watching a suicide

Someone call the doctor

Cause this is the last stand of my pride

Someone get the medic

Because I can’t feel a beat

Someone get the professionals

Before America’s a lifeless sack of meat

America is bleeding,

Do they hear her now?

Her suffering isn’t as fleeting

As it looks to us from here

And poor little America

Is facing her greatest fear.

Someone call the doctor

Cause America is bleeding

And I want to call an armistice

But I don’t have the power

Someone call the doctor

Ease my shredded justice

Or young, naive America

Will become a wilted flower.

Someone call the medic

Cause I can’t feel a pulse

I think we need to shock her

With a couple hundred volts

Someone call the hospital

I think her life’s at stake

And you can kneel upon my neck

If this turns out to be fake

Someone call the doctor

Cause I feel her heartbeat slow

And if she breathes her final breath,

It will be a crippling blow.

Someone call the doctor

She’s been fighting this for years

Someone call the doctor

She watches and sheds her tears

Someone call the doctor

Get her in a stretcher.

I don’t want another life

Shot down by fate’s cruel archer

I’m begging you don’t look away

For this is one death too many

And if you stay in silence too long

The world may forget there was any.

Someone call the doctor please

She won’t hold on much more

Cause America is bleeding,

One foot across the holy door.

And if no one can make a change

Well that’s just fine by me.

I’ll go join America

In ignorant eternity.

Original post: https://theprose.com/post/359761/bleeding-america