By NICHOLAS J. LUSIANI
My surroundings have a history of a specified hue
One can look and one can see we can only be what we can only do.
First the fruit of evil and good was picked
In delusion legitimizing the institution of politricks
Now they chop down the trees to make slivers of green.
Oh, how greed has turned a blossom into a weed
And bountiful crops of sweat into seeds
While most have the need to feed, fathoming deed.
Though they no longer pack their guns for their fun
those with the paper mutilate by slinging ink.
Stop! My Brothers and Sisters, use your minds to think
‘Cuz we have no chance to even blink.
Open your eyes, my brethren,
‘Cuz the killing of millions
is no longer done by pulling triggers,
but trillions of figures.
In the vaults of a few
Cry out to only you:
LET ME EMBRACE MY PEOPLES.
Break me out of this cold dry jail
And let me spread, and