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Rated: E · Poetry · Personal · #1930616
A poem about homelessness
The city sleeps
as rats run by
fighting for crumbs
(a lot like us)
and I start to wonder
but I no longer ask why.

It’s impossible to think
(or to accept)
with billions spent on wars
and tours
of the nicer sides of towns.

There’s plenty of food;
for those that can afford it
There’s plenty of houses;
even as more are emptied each day
There are plenty of clothes
hanging neatly in closets
of those who forget about us.
(or pretend we don’t exist)

My pockets are empty
but my spirits are high
I may not have a job
(or an address)
But I've got skills
and an iron will.

The strength it would take
to makes these things right
is less than that it takes
to fall asleep with a smile
on my face each night.
© Copyright 2013 Derek ubuntu Dunham (ubuntu at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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