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Put down the pen for just a moment.  Writing doesn't feed the poor.  Pamphlets cannot house an orphan, Fliers don't eradicate gore. You're offended by middle fingers, But war and famine are okay.
Does structured poetry convey the same emotional movement as slam poetry? Who am I to say, That a three lined haiku Doesn’t move one’s heart
As I roam the poor streets of Ethiopia, The wails of the children come to my attention. I look to my left and see the worn-out, oversized clothes That hang loosely on their bodies.
Mesmerized by the beauty Lost in the harmony She is Not focused on the problems But the glory Nor the sadness But their story Not attentive to their faults Only noticing the shine
Them big brown eyes – they swallow me So deep, in sleep They’ve wept, parents crept Away from dreaming, hoping young Not so much as mockingbird sung I saw, my own brown eyes
If I could choose just one job where would I even start? I'm told that happiness and love is but endorphins in a brain And yet I feel it rushing through my heart  
The world we live in today can in a moment's notice decay, which without reason will leave us orphaned away.   I have walked over the prints of African children, and yet nothing's changed.
​Noone is there when you are crying,  or to be there to put you to rest.
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