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Poem

Why, why, why, I reach out my hand, waiting, waiting, waiting, for someone to come, my arm is getting tired, my skin is bruised, the wind, the rain has taken its toll, the lighting and scorned sun has taken its toll.

I'm tired of standing on the corner each morning, with book bag in hand, hoping that I will maybe take a stand, my brain is empty of positive thoughts, only fog and dirty soil fills its empty spots.

I feel like those people who sit on the cold wet ground, a sign on their lap saying "free will accepted, give what you can." Everyone is passing me by, I'm just a beggar wanting a hug. Except its not money I'm seeking, but unconditional love. 

Everyone is busy with their own lives, cell phones, I pads, new apple 6, is this what's important nowadays?  I miss the old days where you get a hand written letter, that has loving words written by hand, why, why, why does it haft to be like this?

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