“culture of violence”
On the 6 o'clock news a man in a well pressed suit talks about our “culture of violence” I wonder why he sounds so surprised I’m sure if you peeled back his selves his veins would burn the same survives blood as mine. See I have a theory about the anger that leaks from my fingertips, I’m sure it comes from the same hollow place my ancestors called hunger It’s hard to be polite see Civilised Non violent Productive members of society When the first memory you have taste like other people's hope. Hope The thing that first turned us into survivors My ancestors came first to this land at the bottom of the world On board waka with blistered hands and salt soaked tongues Its wasn’t violence then But survival , Why else would you come to a land hell bent on burning everyone of us Hope That is what my grandmother speaks of It wasn't the hunger she said that chased her kin across the ocean, But that bare knuckled morals of a catholic kicked too many times, Hope was the only survival they knew Hope that their whiskey stained blood would not pass on to the next And yet they landed at the bottom of the world upon , a country hell bent on shaking everyone lose You see it’s hard to stop fighting when the only truth you know is the taste of blood in your mouth Forgive me father for I have sinned but i am not sorry for my fight. My mother rejected our “culture of violence” no man would cross her threshold with the devil on his back. Pity she failed to see the demons taking seed inside of me The man on tv talks of our “culture of violence” Yet if you peeled back his sleeves i’m sure his arms would bear the same survivors scars as mine As theirs As all the hope for this place Hell this land At the bottom of the goddamn world. It’s hard to have time for hope when i am so hell bent on surviving.
-May Smith