I sense a voice from time to time that the breathless still offers me A simple observation to my mind, A thought that only I perceive. It whispers underneath the quiet din: "Tell them what they need to know." "Just what is that?", I ask and then Silence wraps my heart and soul. That's all there is to the short exchange. I find perplexing, with curious walls Of audible grafitti that set the stage Where over again the small voice calls. So I live my simple life and love Friends and family far and near In the hope that one day knowledge flows To tell me all and make pathways clear. Tonight though, as I lay in my bed Between the worlds of thoughts and dreams, I thought I heard a voice that said: "Your life well lived is what they need."
Category: philosophy
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in the still
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minimal wage or the root of all evil
I'm wealthy and you're penniless. I'm a homeowner and you're homeless. I'm loved and you're lonely. I'm employed and you're lazy. I'm clean and you're filthy. I'm happy and you're depressed. I'm a citizen and you're an alien. I'm blessed and you're cursed. I'm chosen and you're not. I'm better off than you specifically because you're worse off than me. That may seem obvious, but see, if I paid you more I would have less. Still more than I need for a hundred lifetimes, but less than I want. I hear them say that money is the root of all evil, but really, being poor is, at least from the view of my penthouse corner office.
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your only tool
violence has become a way of life guns, bombs, knives, swords - words infamy and anonymity are pendulum swings unstable minds choose a weapon yelling at an unseen foe on a street corner shooting unknown enemies in a school "when your only tool is a hammer, everything will look like a nail"* calming a soul troubled in mental storms a nation needs to care to prevent
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a clear signal
lines of discrimination are drawn in wet cement even with years of withering storms they refuse to be obscured paving over, covering up, burying them will leave them lurking underneath waiting to resurface with time only a purposeful upheaval, a deconstruction of the hardened structures will break the lines into smaller pieces dots and dashes on broken segments signaling to the coming generations a kind of S.O.S. from the past
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breathe
Take a deep breath. Let it out. In that time, A child in this world Died from hunger. Breathe deep. Exhale slowly. In that time, Americans threw out Five tons of food. Like a colossal Grand Canyon, The gap between Rich and poor Takes my breath away.
pop's poetry 