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Some one is watching me
Watching me kill myself
Watching the indian in me
Selling myself to the white man
For a small patch of unreliable saftey
Do they know my anguish
My fear?
As they sit wondering at the conversation
Who coud it be?
Who could it be?
No one but the devil and me
hunched over in incredulous disbelief
As he whisper whisper whispers
sweet nothings in my ear
My eyes see nothing but prison bars
Prison bars
I was always his
Even with worlds apart
Where and when did I sign?
How was I so deceived?
The indian in me wonders
through the bars of the cage
at the person watching in the window

Does the wadded up paper ball or the bowling ball fall faster?

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The following comments are for "Dead Indian"
by thesadpoet

not quite sure... what it is...
I affectingly grasp the idea of this piece, although fall short of true wonderment. As your profile states, yes its true, not everything is meant to be understood. I could not agree with you more. But, make sure you take your time when you compile the inner most of your intellect- the soft pronunciation of your life and its work. "sweet nothing in m ear"... that is obviously pressed, rushed as it were, to be thrown out there among the throngs of prolific daydreamers- the so called poets in the air.

The meter in this piece could have been spread on paper better- organized more effectively.

Thanks for sharing as it had been some time since I had given thought to the native blood with me.

( Posted by: pablowilliams [Member] On: August 23, 2009 )

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