Where's my bread, man?
We can go to the moon,
But we can't give a poet a little seed money?
Save a child in Africa,
But not pull me from the quicksand of poverty?
The fruits of my labor wasted,
My body broken to support the upper class.
Waging war on terror in another land,
Not fighting to save the homeless man in D.C.
A storm of bullets from men who don't know,
why the work they do is for nothing.
In a tempermental land, like a womans ego,
Brought down by a single word: Hate.
2-7-08
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