The Make Up of Spirit
Who am I? I am a part of all I’ve seen, all I’ve done, all that’s been done to me. I’m part of everyone I’ve come into contact with, part of all the countries that combined to make up my heart, my spirit, my mind.
I’m all the languages I’ve heard, taught before I could put thoughts to words. I think in multiple dialects, making my words more complex, not always correct to those listening to what I bring to their minds, praying they’ll find meaning in mistakes.
I’m war torn, as that’s what I was born into, thinking that bombs destroying families, homes, traditions kept as mothers wept, was how one’s day began and ended, explosions shedding the skyline just another sign of a normal day in countries oceans away. No one remembers, no one regrets the price paid to free slaves, to win an inch of sacred ground, flesh to flesh, pound for pound. Potential blown away to pave the way for some senator's son to rule a people he never knew.
I’m a citizen of the world, of three countries of three different ways of praying to one God, one love. I’m multi-cultural. I’m bound by Momma’s Israel, Poppa’s Ireland, my America. I weep for teenage soldiers shot down in streets, lost in wars they don’t remember what they’re fighting for, for their homelands, blood dripping from my hands into vials shipped to I.V’s hoping to save children who got in the way of muti-national figure heads, the ones that count dollars not the dead.