Poetry

The People Die

The people die, and yes we’ve noticed Yet our participation is simply to share The tragic stories and reports Of those killed by those who dare – Maybe if our goodness dared just as much or more the reports would be different

The people die, and yes of hunger Yet we discuss more than we feed As we stuff our mouths and get fatter And do very little for those in need – Maybe if our hearts were as big as our appetites more would eat

The people die, and they pray too Wondering why there are no answers Not knowing that to free people Comfort, not love, is what truly matters – Maybe if we loved and became their answers to prayers they would believe

The people die and I’m content To chase MY dreams, MY comfort, ME Labeling them as blessings, as they are But damning the way of others with that same me – Maybe we should content ourselves with less comforts and be more discontented with injustice and inequality

The people die and I live Among personal waste and excess I’m full of empty sympathy and opinion, A pledge of faith with actions faithless – Maybe I am writing a worthless poem