Poems are as cowardly as ever,
Their indirect focused on foolish mechanics of poetry.
There’s no blood on the paper from which the heart bleeds.
Our sickly minds in which evil thoughts breed,
Our heads is where the real devil dwells.
Selfish, greedy, constantly, judging always needy and not having.
Complaining of short comings though there just a lack of luxuries.
An old woman might kill you,
A pastor might desire to know you,
The real world with real problems,
No fantasies land of a love stricken world enticed by the flow of a pen,
No, only a reflection of the harsh cold,
We ignore the guilt that grips us,
Now and then when our consciousness is awaken from its slumber.
What wicked ways we practice,
As hundreds die in famines,
Still we flock to buffets to stuff our bellies.
When we possess the power to hear the cries of nations
And choose to remain deaf,
As in order not to disturb our precious preserved peace.
Imagine the scale against us.