Greedy Old America


I have been driven mad by death

The favor in which we all don't want to do is die.

We wish to hear our children's humble cry and laugher.

To understand those who grew up in different times different places.

And yet being driven mad by death doesn't  bother them as much as it does now.

We give a name or word to everything and that follows a definition of sorts.

Being told our race and or way of life is uncivilized, that we are sick.

We plagued  to survive conditions we are bound to give, "return",  or pay back.

That our lives are machines, a pawn in a game, to won by the highest bidder.

What if the highest  bidder was merely a child, a mother, or an experienced college graduate.

Would we even think to submit our lives to just want to breathe the same air we constantly compare and contrast. Everywhere.


This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world


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