The life that we throw away

like silver spoons, in a paper lunch sack

is a tragedy.

We don’t know we do it

because, fate protects us

from the agony

of what might’ve been.

It’s hard to see people

for who they are


their false tasks.

Their hunger, is obvious.

Their stomach, is growling

for that sack lunch,

that can starve a madman’s soul


a stomach seldom satisfied

gets used to nothing.

Hunger, is the world

eating itself

filled and wasted

by nothing.

The strong man, with big fingers

tries to type, at an office job

He answers phones, and listens, to weak people.

Men, don’t know

what to do.

Fate, is a feather blowing in the wind

It belongs

to flightless birds

who don’t know why,

they don’t soar

in the sky.

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