I see him everyday.
He just sits and sways.
He had a stomach to feed.
And yes a mind, so what if full of greed?
He had no money to spare.
But he had his own share.
Of?
Things unknown to you and me.
Things we don’t everyday see.
Pangs of hunger.
Lack of slumber.
Yet he dared to dream.
One day to be society’s cream.
He wanted a house a son and a wife.
Who was he?
He was the addict.
Addicted to LIFE.
Cried the beggar, “cant you see me and my crippled limbs,
Write about me o’poet and my fight for bread crumbs.”
Cried the mother, “write about me oh poet,
I have a son on the borders to be sent.”
“where’s your attention dear poet?” roared the king of the jungle.
“ you have killed me and left my skin with flies to mingle.”
“ o my see what you have done to me.” sobbed the oak.
“I have been stabbed and cut and my branches all broke.”
“ stop it, stop it!” pleaded the poet.
“ I shall write about all of you dears.” He said.
Eyes stinging with tears.
