with an eyebrow down and frown that he's enlisting.
So now that you've realized it you can resist it.
Now that there’s cocky anger in your eyes,
pick up your slowing heart and chainsaw tears
and put down your wired fists for him—
the warrior boy is growing fond of war.
When you come on down to greet him
with your loving, open arms, know when you meet him
his frown’s a statement to the dad who beat him.
And he’s been hating and instigating harm on
pretty regretful things he never had
that lay now beaten to a pulp for him—
the culprit prince is showing off his war.
Up against the brick wall, his bloody lip
is scarred and marred by pain, yet he’s shaking it
off his hip.
He's dying in sunlight, wasted like tears in the
rain
when he’s drying inside and out.
This caged animal dares the passerby near
to hear him cry in a bloodied pout for him—
the kid who knows he’ll die in war.
Hair unkempt, he's a raging beautiful wild
ADHD druggie renegade and fugitive child
fighting off the adversaries awaiting in the
glade.
He's deep in the shade of a foxhole
with hands caught in constant surrender,
so all outsider and naked bystander roll for
him—
the warrior son is growing up in war.
Run boy run! Grit your teeth and spit
blood and spit to the bricks beneath your feet
and sit!
Hide where you stand and never submit!
Hang that helmet head you’re confiding in
but never give in or go on home to where
boys like you belong, just run now—
your life is new, there's so much more!
--Porter Daryl's Poems
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