March 29, 2009
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In the cracks and crevices
he strives for life even
though the voice and
the foot discriminate-
he battles on.
he is no butterfly-
and with time
he is no swan.
The hand of sympathy is
not upon him-
Praise- nonexistent.
But he is my best friend-
the cockroach.

From place to place with no choice
but to hide his face,
he is damned.
He is the convict
with the bounty of comfort on his head.
His mood- his mind- unconsidered.
They choose beauty over ambition
and so he backs away.
But I see him and hold out my hand,
he can stay with me today.

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