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.

I feel like an alien, descended from another planet and viewing humanity for the first time.

What dark tempest drives us to do the things we do to each other, and to the world we live in? We create monuments to our greatness while selling our children? What justification do we have to sell our own kind for our ****** pleasure? What lack of understanding drove our sadistic forays into torturing each other in the name of progress? Why do we do the horrible things that humanity is capable of? And at the same time, how are we able to create beauty out of nothing? What kind of sense does it make for some of us to turn inward and love, and others to turn outward and destroy?

To bring it back to a more personal level....

Why is it that I can take all the good and bad I've lived, and still make myself get up in the morning?

What is it that drives me to go to a bar knowing what I'll find when I get there? Why do I see so many lonely people, men and women, girls and boys, seeking...and not finding?