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Poem

I am not who you call me if that's what you mean
I do not flatter egos
With glitz and glamor of words while the obscene
Condition of people's lives tell
In front of our eyes there is an invisible hell
I want this poem to be a soldier then
Searching and killing in human hearts
The terrorist poverty that cankers men
I want this poem to be a social worker
Bringing the homeless into the shelter
Of the love of men, I want this poem
To be like Jesus doling bread famished mouths
I want this poem to be a healer mending
The broken health of citizens
Forgotten by a narrow minded wealth
Of technology in earth's richest country
I am not who you call me if that's what you mean

My language is not a party
For intellectuals looking for new leaves
Meaning, this is not a ball
Of words for socialites and celebrities
And I do not want to read again
Poets lost in private pain
Unless their pain connect as a metaphors
For the suffering of the world
If poems do not have compassion
They should cause compassion
And then as one army 
Let us march to right history
And voice the cause of the downtrodden
The oppressed, depress
The wretched of the earth, distress
The lonely, broken, forgotten
I am not who you call me if that's what you mean
I am poet of the people, the people's poet
A poet's words are bombs, missiles, bayonets
Do not read these poem
Holding my words too close to your eyes

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