The Promised Land

My fountain was in a dark prison cell, and I didn’t know why.

I’d been fed what was left over, my cup was dry.

My inner pain came from not being able to receive the finer things in life, they didn’t play fair and they left me alone.

My mind is still twisted in what’s left of us, as hardly any of my family has made it out of the jungle.

I’m scarred. I’m in pain. 

My tears dried up when I left my lonely mother at the hospital and came to reality of what was left over from the war.

Thinking that the battle was over the true battle had just begun.

Holding hands with myself, I stood on top of a building and watched what was left of my dream.

I pushed the bootstrap line a bit too far.

Many seem to have forgotten, or some just stopped caring, but I’m an optimist so I kept marching.

Taking my last bullet to the head I saw little Tatiana in the distance with her people smiling.

She graduated and started her own business because of me.

They don’t see me suffering.

I took my last breath as blood dripped down my face and the God took me home.

Everything that I’d fought for was left with no will, no signature, only videos and audio tapes of a dream.

Although misunderstood, I painted a picture with my words of a better world.

As my body tipped over, the last thing I heard was people rushing to that picture that I had painted, the image of:

“The Promised Land.”