Lone Soldier
I hear what you’re saying, bro;
You are a lone soldier.
Can’t no body take your pride, can’t no body hold you down. Oh no, you gotta keep on movin’. From fight to fight. From couch to couch. From girl to girl. Not woman to woman though; ‘cause no real woman gonna play those juvenile games, or mess around with juvenile gangs, like the one you claim. What color was it? Blue, or red, or Black? Or white. Who cares. You are a lone soldier.
A lone soldier with one hell of a weapon. Eradicating as an AK, terminal like that first taste of crack. Your anger is a natural disaster, an infectious torrent destroying the lives around you, past on so they can destroy the lives of people they once loved. Speaking of love, you’ll be surprised when I bleed, but it won’t be from the piece you squeeze, rather I’ll give you my kidney so you’ll can have a piece of me, how about a piece of my mind, to let you know in kind, the rhyme I find is whole, not benign like the cracker jack smack you flapped in the corner when you timed out. Like a kid pretending to be Bruce Lee, fighting out of imitation because that’s all you’d ever seen, but since your moves were cheap, that didn’t keep you from getting hurt when you skinned your knee, you didn’t just cry, you weep still – don’t lie, I know its real. I’ve been there. Spitting off verbalized bullets of fears at anyone, bullets that cut and run like the tears carving hollow canyons down through your stoned/, hardened, emotionless mask trying so desperately cover that salty taste and weld on a face of indignant disobedience for every teacher, principal, officer, store clerk, neighbor, gramma, lover, aunt, uncle, mailman, gangsta, bully, friend, homeboy, homegirl, girlfriend, homeboy’s girlfriend, preacher, mother, father, Savior. Who cares you’re a lone soldier?
You should know, my weapon is bigger than your weapon, if you know what I mean… but maybe you don’t know what I mean because all you’ve ever seen is a hate and anger on your team, and that makes me wanna scream from the top of my lungs to the depths of your soul, like creole, call it Cajun cause you been ragin’ so long, nobody wants to hear that song, I know. So grab your bong, and hide away; or move along and hide your shame; OR step up and become something tougher than yourself maybe redefine wealth or maybe recreate health… care in America, Mr. Future President. Can you read what I spelt? It’s a new word, take notes. I’m not the teacher, just a classmate showing the ropes. This is how you spell survive – L – O – V – E. But who cares you’re alone, Soldier?
A lone soldier has one dangerous prayer. For years you been praying for the Unknown to make something be grown, say a rose that grows from concrete leaving cracks in the street like the one you paved on your heart so heavy it lost its feeling from every time your fists greet another jaw or cheek bone or teeth thrown from lips. Another chance blown, standing proud in your place, getting past in the race. Proud of yourself? The scars on his face are not from you or knives or knuckles, hold your chuckles, he hates himself like a child hates belt buckles, slung by old men wishing for back when they were lone soldiers too, who, might choose something different for themselves, break the cycle, start a revival of men who hate hate and love their child. But that didn’t happen for that solitary cap’tn. He took the easy way out, or should we say in – incarcerated, inebriated, incapacitated, infected, incited, inflamed, insane, intimidated, intoxicated, invalid, invincible, more like invisible, in between a rock and a hard place. Now you’ve looked into the crystal ball to see what you could be. Feeling me? No, feel again. Reach deep in these wounds, put your hand in my side. It’s for you that I die. And I’ll do it again, and again. I care that you’re alone, Soldier.
Since you’re still swinging, let me hit you with this word. I’m not saying change who you are; but do you know who you are? So some thug said something derogatory about your mama. So what? Your mama had people talking mess before you were ever a wet spot on your daddy’s pants/dreams, and she got along just fine. Just cause you wanna feel some power or pain to check your pulse or rid tired soul of numbness, don’t blame your actions on others. At least call it what it is. Your anger is a defense weaponism, a pathological condition. For the sake of humanity, I know you’re not a fan of me, but what you’re doing is insanity. So keep pullin’ up your shirt, and show us the only hard thing about you. Or do the hardest thing in life – lay it down. Live for someone else. That’s where life gets tough. Selfishness is easy, kid games like Parcheesi . Wanna be a soldier? Learn to die that others might live. Love somebody. Hell, love everybody.
