Treasure Island

Gregory PierreJerome


Survival Mode


I see today right now and not the future
In a deserted island alone I seek for life
As civilization grew I went along feeding on its scraps
Through slavery and segregation I suffered brutally
The wisdom I have is all mines with no inheritance
All I do is seek God for a moment of happiness and never joy
Some of me try as others prosper on my downfall
When will I ever stand tall?
Education I have but how does that make things better
I should be one as a body not cut off with knives
I sin and hide under the Lord's beautiful wrap
Yes it is true He loves me with abundance
I am never obedient but still I wait on his miracles
Take some deed, then I know my sons will beat obstacles
I should take action and make a better life for us
Instead of taking advantage on sitting in front of the bus
I reap a harvest already reaped
Who shall lead the young to come for I could not led myself
Growing with a community full of wisdom
blossoming like lilies in a shining light
So I ask, stop blaming the past and racism as it grows
I am in a survival mode as survival mode is in me

Submitted: Tuesday, June 01, 2010

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Survival Mode by Gregory PierreJerome )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  9. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  10. Invictus
    William Ernest Henley

PoemHunter.com Updates

Poem of the Day

poet Henry Lawson


The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
...... Read complete »

   

Member Poem

[Hata Bildir]