Writing With a Broken Pen: The Blood Is My Ink

By Marlon Powe

The EBook - He uses his words to paint pictures and draw the audience into his vision. Every poem is a journey with an emotion to be felt and a message to be spread. He is a true master of his craft.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781365709807

Book preview

Writing With a Broken Pen: The Blood Is My Ink

Writing With a Broken Pen

The Blood is my Ink

Poems By: The Gift

Dedication

I dedicate this book

To you Spanky,

I miss you

And you will always be…

My broken pen.

Contents

Pg. 9 America Screaming

Pg. 13 Bus Stop

Pg. 19 Counting the Rain Drops

Pg.  21 Crash This Train IV

Pg.  26 Extinct

Pg.  28 Fading Colors

Pg.  31 Genocide

Pg.  33 God, Why Are You Crying?

Pg.  40 He Told Us This

Pg.  44 I Can Love You Pass Your Pain

Pg.  47 I Cry Smiles

Pg.  50 I’m Sorry Chicago

Pg.  55 Imagine

Pg.  58 In a Room Full of People

Pg.  60 Judges

Pg.  63 Let My Words Make Love to You

Pg.  68 Love like This

Pg.  71 Miss Jackson

Pg.  73 Mr. Pistol II

Pg.  78 Notification

Pg.  81 Our Paths Crossed for a Reason

Pg.  84 Rain on Me

Pg.  90 Still Counting

Pg.  93 The Agreement II

Pg.  96 The First Drop of You

Pg.  98 The Prettiest Poem

Pg.  101 The Question She Asked Her Mother

Pg. 105 Where Were You

Pg.  108 Your Love is Queen

America Screaming

Despite the facts that my heart cries

And penitentiary walls conceal our history like

Spies,

I can’t compromise my faith.

I put money on my brother commissary today

Praying that time would fly away

But we all know dead hope can’t fly.

I talked to God when escape from darkness

Is not an option.

Lord I know that you love us and

We have traveled down this road before

But I really need

You to step in and stop this.

My brother eyes crammed with tears

As he pulled the sawed-off shotgun from his waist.

He aimed it at the other drug dealer face; Grace

Is not a part of his equation today?

He has met with death before

So the pain of life makes death his starvation.

He never considered the years he would be facing

As he blew the other drug dealer face in.

He has two strikes already

And Clinton Correctional Facility spaghetti

Taste better than

Four nights of fasting.

So he loaded up the bricks

And no my brother is not a mason

But he travels the slumps delivering

Death in white faces.

Trina sells her soul because she’s

Addicted to its embraces.

She tried living for the future

But the nightmares from her past still chases her.

In her mind there’s no way out because the

Projects

Holds the keys to her determination;

But it was stolen at the age of seven

When her step-dad stole her innocence

And sold it to the highest bidder.

I’m painting you a picture

Of the ghetto in living colors

Where track marks become birth marks

For crack babies whose futures are

Auctioned off before conception.

Abortion is not an option;

Five-hundred dollars can buy plenty of flour.

In these streets;

Water is now as thick as blood

But blood still spill like water.

Trina tried talking to her pastor but why bother.

He refuses to leave the comforts of the steps of his mega church

To talk to the dope –fiends, gang-bangers and

Rapist.

I remember it being twelve disciples who followed Jesus Christ, now it’s tens of thousands who follow King Hoover.

So who is delivering the gospel to our children?

It’s Gangsters, Vice Lords, Latin Kings, Crips and Bloods. Young souls are being lost;

Spirits are stuck in the mud because

The color of your shirt can get you put in the mud.

Ask any mother have they ever buried a thug

And their tears will paint you an honest picture of

No.

The truth shall set them free;

Its hunting seasons on these young men souls.

So while the devil place a cost on the heads

Of the walking dead

That are American dreaming,

They should be American screaming

Because death walks the streets in brood day light

With his guns drawn

Looking for the first cowboy who thinks he can’t defeat him.

He hasn’t lost yet

So place a Bible to your chest damn a bullet proof vest.

Jesus rose from the grave it hasn’t been duplicated since,

So it makes no since to straddle the fence

Because bullets hurdle barriers like Edwin Moses

But he can’t part the sea of death the blood from our youth run over.

They are American dreaming,

They should be American screaming

Because the depths of darkness

Can’t be measured in a non-believer.

That’s why I can hear the echoes on the walls of misplaced hearts;

Pattering like acid raindrops on the roads that leads to nowhere. I use to believe you reap what you sow

But consciences don’t get checked anymore.

Why would you get punished for some shit?

You have no control over?

Our stories were already read before our books were written. The author is anonymous