My Nation My Country 2

Tears flows freely in the street like a stream loose and on a dirty bliss. Momma is home sweating on her chin while holding her waist and pa is in the sitting room fuming with disgust and clenching his old fists. Times has come hard on all. The race had ended before it had begun. I was born into the chaos. A thirsty bloodshed I was led into. I was thrown out into the streets without no proof of any identity. I was battered, shattered by many tongues. Curses, wailings and moanings were all the audible voices I could hear. Broken bottles, dirty corpse were all I could see. Close to two muddy corpse that were marked with a 3 days stench sits 2 cops smoking hemps. Crime was their motto but it had turn to their nemesis and their dread. The sun looks red as it shines, trying to make bright this gloom in our nation. It looks tired, weary as if it hasn't slept not even a winkle. I was not far from pity, not far from anguish but I did not cry. A tearful eyes will miss a pebble and hurt his feet, so I did not cry nor mop. I was dead already, just walking around recording details of the hell that I have lived in. To show whoever will stand to judge me that I was a consequence of many variables. That I was made and that I did not make myself. That I lived but I never breathed. The sun goes down as it thundered. Ripe the smell comes choking my breath. Down the corner was a poster almost in shreds now hanging thinly on a nail. A sharp contrast to the death that visited the roads that I have been too. It reads bodly as if oblivious of the suffering that we were in. All it did was to thunder and clamor for power, to rule. Only yesterday, it had rippled through every corner that daughters of prominent men have caught the flu and were now merchants of the bed. I weep as the stories comes vividly in my face. The stories that I will tell to a generation that may not be born. I wish I had my wings, I wish I had my feet, I wish I had my voice. At least I would be able to fly into the sky and jingle with the weather, and only to be visited by the weather. If I had my feet, at least I would be able to run, sprint away, away from all these that cuts my wrist. If I had my voice, I would be able to wail, to torment mankind humanity with my symphony. I am a weakling, a puppet, a dummy that is of no valor. I am helpless to help. I have no choice, no alternative but to wish. At least my wishes they cannot take. The only image of what a man can be that I possess. I am sorry