You know
I suppose
That I write
It’s something that I do
Because I believe in you
Because I believe
You’re tired
Because I believe
You’re sad
Because I believe
You’re hella mad
I believe these things
Because I’m human
In an inhuman place
Where race
Still hates race
Where country
Still bombs country
And where the rich
Carefully farm the souls of the poor
Listen up my children!
I’m a writer
I’m a fool
I send unarmed doves
By the battalion
Into the arms of ghouls
I curse the generals
I curse the chiefs
I curse the spies
I curse the metal
I curse the bombs
I am a fool who writes
For children’s eyes
For bluest skies
I am a fool. Yes.
But the word is my only gun
In this bloody mess
It won’t stop you crying I know
O little one
It won’t clothe, feed, or warm you
But know this
These words truly do love you
Underneath the rubble
Inside the dark hospital
Near the unmarked grave of your mother
Please know this
These words love you
And although they were written
By a weak man
In an evil time
They were born in a heart
That constantly wept
For the pure
For the good
For the innocent dead
Just a poor writer you know
Please then take my simple words
To be the flesh of your flesh
To be that lonely blessing so wanting to be said
