Everyone loves you
the world is your stage
each line well rehearsed
you’re the latest craze
yet alone in the darkness
a child cries out
unmasked and revealing
a heart filled with doubt
today they love you
what if tomorrow they don’t
how well will you sleep
knowing your demons won’t

Children running,
through the streets.
Taking cover,
under rubble,
and the deceased.

Children cry,
and they scream.
Their parents dead,
planes overhead,
drop bombs on the city.

They have no hope,
they don't believe.
They are war torn,
and they mourn,
over the dead bodies.

Regretless bullets,
fly across the battlefield.
House destroyed,
parents dead.
Sorry children,
this is real.

The children of war,
they are no more.
The children of war.

They're homeless,
they're starving,
they're tired,
they're scared.
Bullets fill the air,
they can go nowhere.

The children,
they're crying,
bullets flying,
through the air.
And nobody cares.

Nobody cares...

War torn,
civilians mourn,
over dead childrens bodies.
The children of war,
they are no more.

To write food in the stomach
Of every hungry child.

To spell war as peace,
Metaphorize flowers into the barrel

Of every gun on Earth.
The poet has responsibilities

Beyond those of mothers,
Of kings and presidents.

I refuse to give up hope;  
This could be a poem world.

Come on, write your worst piece
Of literature.

Even misprints may give other
Meanings to a word,

Write me a green sky, blue dirt,
Trees the colour of air.

Sometimes the best poets
Have the least to say,

So keep writing, write until your
Fingers fall asleep.

Write until you havent slept
For weeks in search of that word,

That one right word,
Then rest on a notebook pillow

And dream the world right.
Write the world right.

There is no such thing as
Wasted poetry.