There is a wrinkle
in my heart,
blood flow slowed
to naught,
chest tightening
in anxious observation,
facing
a thousand people
suffering
loudly and silently
at the same time.

This is the frame of mind
that breaks the branch
that reaches for hands
which never come.

Heroes never fly by
the midday sky
to swoop in
and save the children
from their depression.

This is my obsession
the passion of pain
painted in prose
and poetry,
me pathetically
trying to reach humanity.

I should take it more seriously.
Yet, foolishly I continue rhyming.

It is out of love
not callousness
that I continue this
poetic struggle.