I write because this country!
So full of strong hands and legs!
Has not enough roads on which to provide
for the needy, enough flour or bread.
I have to write! Because this land!
Of flowing milk down drainage pipes,
where officials must murder and dispose of innocents to earn their stripes.
Is also filled with beautiful babies,
whose eyes inspire their parents to do what’s right.
Whose clothes hang on the orifices of claustrophobic stone cages that rise,
to contain quietly tomorrows unknowing sunrise.
I have to write, to be who I am.
To let others know that they can.
On paper, I can reveal dove or ram.
I can hope for a better tomorrow.
