Your lead pencils and soldier’s lead bullets are made in the same factory, and yet you write about the evil of war.
Your sworn ally the trees are cut down to make your endless thrown out drafts.
Do you see a pattern?
It's amazing you even have the time to come up with these rhymes, who affords that time for you?
Do you have a job, a cop maybe to protect the streets? No, you compose a symphony of sadness about their violence, from the safety of your two story home, which they will rush to protect if someone “less fortunate” enters.
You cry about guns while sitting in the protection of the world's largest army that has brutally crushed everyone else, including civilians to make you happy. Are you happy, or even satisfied, even a little bit?
You are constantly being fed by starving farmers, and you don't even give them a voice. Not a single one of you do. Isn't that your whole job? To give the forgotten a voice?
The ocean we dump our trash into is almost as deep as your ignorance.
The pen is only mightier than the sword because a pen can sign a declaration of war.
You call out for the building you're standing on to be demolished.
You shout at the ocean you surf on to become a still zen pool.
You ask for your own vocal cords to be cut.
You say that poetry is the path to peace, but the path to poetry was afforded through violence and greed.
You may think that you are making a "difference", changing minds and hearts, and you are to an extent, but that "difference" is only made through the ACTIONS of those you inspired. Actions speak louder than words.
A martyr doesn’t have to say anything at all, and he can convert a whole nation. But he still has to “do”.
And any change you make is overshadowed by the change you're not making, by being inside an air conditioned room coming up with slam poetry instead of being outside helping those who actually suffer in reality.
And heaven help me, I am you.
