Dear Mr. President,
Your rhetoric stones cannot block truths for too long
Is it too high to peek at the promise land?
Can you provide the shoes we’re supposed to climb with?
Or can we not afford it. So we’ll get left behind.
Mr. President!--
We think you’ve already reached the top.
Sitting with your back towards utopia, dangling your paws at our claws
You and those fat cats with golden brick pockets have climbed
the stones. Confused as to why you’re not weighted down.
But this is a country, where you promise gold bricks were white in sunlight
And red and blue in shade.
So we’re forced to stand in the shadows casted by a wall
On some grass we made greener.
Dear Mr. President? If you won’t provide the shoes
And someone has yet to invent the wrecking ball
Please just pass down a watering hole.
Submitted: June 14, 2016
© Copyright 2022 CatrinaAndrade136. All rights reserved.
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