As long as the beatings seem to defeat,
They will be treated with signs of support.
And a feeling of camaraderie expressed.
Not to be aborted,
Or left to stress in distress.
And if a bloodied victory is obtained,
An elevation of goodwill is fostered and maintained.
But if rivels begin to attack.
And take advantage of that.
A boastering ceases in grief.
Until a declaration to defend comes to mask a weakness...
Competitors pretend with a fight to the bitter end.
'We are not accustomed to having our turf tampered.'
These words heard seem so out of place.
Is that the reason why filth remains on our inner city streets?
With empty souls,
Lost without those cheers wished.
That pamper, soothe and strengthen.
To over come those losses felt so deep?
~Those soldiers 'must' feel so discouraged! ~
Soldiers? What soldiers?
I am referring to those gang members,
Fighting one another.
As if their ignorance makes a difference,
To the declining quality of life.
Experienced by their fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers.
~What are the value of these wars being fought?
And for what reasons?
I am totally not understanding these conflicts.
And the purpose achieved by the display of such sickness!
It's as if insanity is intended.
At the cost of all of our expenses...
I think you have a point.
But who not craving the taste for blood,
Is going to be satisfied enough to comprehend it?
The rare steak lovers?
Or the 'bling' bangers?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem