Blood in the Mud
A poem. A story. A battle cry.
From Chase Linko-Looper:
It’s 3 AM, and I can’t sleep. Been tossing and turning, thinking ‘bout this land, my life, and all the hell we been through. West Virginia ain’t just a place; it’s a fight. A fight to survive, to be seen, to be more than what they let us be.
So I created this... A poem. A story. A battle cry. Call it whatever you want, but it’s real. It’s raw. It’s everything I’ve lived and everything this state stands for.
We don’t break. We don’t bow. We bleed, but we don’t stop.
Blood in the Mud
Born in the hills where the coal dust chokes,
where the rivers run thick with the sweat of broke folks.
Where the land gave all ‘til it screamed out loud,
but the suits in DC are deaf to that sound.
Mama worked late, daddy swung fists,
some nights we ate, some nights we missed.
Took what we could from the corner store,
they called it theft, we called it war.
Grew up fast with a fist full of rage,
learned real quick how to bottle the pain.
Signed my name, got a gun, got a flag,
shipped out young in a body bag.
Came back different, but who gave a damn?
Uncle Sam got his cut, now I ain’t worth a hand.
Left to rot in the land I swore to defend,
tell me again how this story ends?
Out in the streets with a bottle and ghosts,
watchin’ my brothers turn into smoke.
War don’t stop when the boots touch home,
it just finds new ways to carve up bones.
State forgot me, just like the rest,
said it was my fault, I failed their test.
But I clawed back, yeah, I fought like hell,
spat in the face of the ones who sell.
This place was built by the broken, the poor,
miners and fighters who kicked down the door.
They crushed us once, but we ain’t layin’ down,
West Virginia ain’t no ghost town.
We rise in the mud, we claw through the dirt,
we bleed, we burn, we don’t break, we learn.
They take and take, but we still stand,
this is our home, our fight, our land.