POETRYBy Christian Valle
Poverty Breeds Destruction
Fists fly, bottles crack, blood flows, mothers’ hearts bleed, for on the streets of hell they live.
Twelve, he is, but on the ride he carries no age, just black cold steel.
She wants to trip, so on sale her body goes.
Four months in her womb grows disabled and not even born.
Five years, one test and for sure her life will go, she repents, she is ridiculed, lost in a daze for time will take her whole.
Poverty breeds destruction.
“Why I am Who I am”
It’s difficult to explain who I am. To me life is trivial - an influx of nothing. Haven't you ever asked yourself what am I doing here? At times I've ask myself is it all as simple as it seems? You live, then you die, loving for an occasional moment in time. I am not speaking about religion - my quarrel isn't with God - it’s with-in me.
To analyze the fundamentals of life is like trying to explain the creation of the cosmos, its beginnings and its purpose. You can hypothesize, but the ultimate truth will never be revealed. This is because you were, not there to witness its birth. In life things are almost the same, You are born but this isn't you. It is the vessel in which you will become, depending on the roads you choose.
I've heard that it's better to have loved and lost, then to never have love at all. But, I say to you. How can one miss something they never had. This is my consciousness, awareness, for me it is the reality of knowing that I am who I am, because I don’t know myself, because ultimately, I never lived.
A Child's Love & A Dieing Mother
"The Conflict"
HOW! – how ironic.
You gave her to me.
And NOW!
You take her away.
Please!
Let her be! she belongs to me.
Is it that you don't understand?
WHY. . . . . . . . . . .
Can't you see her soul is what makes me.
YOU! who’s hands can heal, heal the hands that fill my heart.
HOW can I live out this ordeal, if you don't even feel, the hurting in my heart? You know without her healed, I can't live out this thing called life.