under the late lights of the night, <br />warm and at futile ease, <br />poems flow, a mind is appeased, <br />typing rhythmic words of little worth, <br />its easy for me, <br />i have what so many other foriegn <br />minds do not, <br />and here i sit, <br />feeling like a lost ship, <br />in fields of heavy clouds, <br />whilst others starve, <br />i can laugh with friends, <br />whilst others have no home, <br />i can write poems on my phone, <br />whilst others battle wars, <br />i moan about stupid house hold chores, <br />the majority of minds, <br />are chanelled to there own despair, <br /> i wish, wish so damn hard, <br /> that i will find it in me to not <br />just care about the crumbling, <br />hopes of others, <br />but to step out of the sea, <br />of my own misery, <br />and spread the seed, <br />of hope upon the lands, <br />but until these hands are untied, <br />i shall continue to sit, <br />under the ever ready night light, <br />and put pen to paper, <br />without ever really changing a thing, <br />if every poet could sing, <br />how much more hope, <br />could they bring.<br /><br />Not Long Left<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-guilty-poet/
