The Desperate
The world is not my maker.
The logic it decrees.
When I can’t see the burning forest
For the flaming trees.
I long to fix its problems,
In this my desperate plea:
The rich don’t care for those who live
In crushing poverty.
I long to lose this baggage,
That hangs beneath my eyes.
It threatens to corrupt my faith
Through those whom I despise.
The world is not my oyster,
If only this I knew.
I’m just some guy who writes his poems;
There’s nothing I can do.
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