In a review of quarter quell, HoppsHungerFan asked me to do a follow-up with the feelings of tributes. This is a partial response. I don't own The Hunger Games. Enjoy!
We are the dead ones.
The losers.
You killed us.
Our blood is on your hands.
Killers!
Killers as much as us.
Down with the Capitol.
We never say these things aloud
But death is freedom.
We are the tributes who didn't come home.
This is our story.
Some of us wanted this
Wanted it badly
Wanted to see our names on the screen that flashed victor.
We wanted to be remembered.
It wasn't like we thought it would be.
It was so much worse.
Nightmares, nightmares of those we killed.
You made us killers.
You took our impressionable minds and made us mindless slaves.
Slaves for your entertainment.
You said you loved us.
Our blood may be on the hands of another
But you killed us.
We were what made the games interesting.
We weren't people, not in your minds.
We were devoted in life,
we are rebels in death.
The rest of us were chosen.
Painted hands swirled in a ball,
Enjoyment to you,
Doom to us.
Some of us couldn't handle the blood.
We lost it, went arena-mad, you say.
You took our minds
With your game of torture.
Others quaked with fear and tumbled, tumbled down
Onto the mines you put there.
Yet others fell to the hands of the mindless killers you made, already weak.
You saw us as rebellious, untrustworthy.
You are the rebels, the untrustworthy ones.
You rebel against sanity and morality and basic humanity.
The odds were never in our favor
No matter what your silly representatives say on reaping day.
You put us in an endless circle
More life for a higher chance of death.
It's no wonder we hate you.
Our lives back home were bad enough.
But they were lives, lives you took from us.
There is a debt to be paid
And you shall pay.
It is funeral bells, not victory trumpets for us.
We are failures in your minds.
We come home in coffins for family and friends to weep.
Nothing can heal their pain.
You reenact our deaths.
You love them.
We are dying.
You couldn't care less.
It's all about the show.
Not children dying.
We are children.
Children who should be at home, talking with friends and family, the people who stand on the stage at victory tours.
If your children were dying, you would be heartbroken and outraged.
It's no wonder you are about to fall.
No one stands for injustice.
You forgot our names, didn't you?
Now hear them shouted as rallying cries.
We live forever as the symbols, the motivation.
You have forgotten, our districts do not forget.
Play your cruel little games.
Use us as the players.
Go on.
No one will catch you when your regime topples.
Hail to the Mockingjay.
Victors have power, and so do we.
In death, we are the inspiration.
You are the monsters
Of your own creations.
You dug our graves,
Dig your own.
A punishment for the rebellion? Ha!
More like fodder for your screens.
Our screams mean nothing to you.
They live on in the people's minds.
You made the game,
we were the pieces.
We are free now.
Free from your demonic influence.
You are murderers, with your feathered faces and artificial colors.
Something so pretty, yet so cruel.
You, the Capitol, reigned supreme over our bodies.
You could not control our hearts and minds.
Dying is our final revolution.
You called us tributes.
We were just children.
When we died, we died.
We will not live again.
You took our lives, our everything from us.
You broke thousands of hearts as you killed us onscreen.
We are the dead tributes.
You forgot us.
We will not be forgotten.
We will not be played with anymore.
Our legacy will destroy you.
You laughed at our deaths.
Laugh on.
You won't be laughing when you die.
You will die like us.
Scum, you called us.
You are the scum, remorseless.
How things change when the gun is turned on its maker!
We were people too.
What an embarrassment to die like the districts.
We will have our revenge, even by proxy.
We dead tributes have the greatest power of all.
That got real dark real fast. I don't hate the Capitol, but the dead tributes would. I hope you enjoyed this poem. Thanks for reading!