I write as well,
tell myself
I’m not made
to perform on stage.

The blank page
is the place
where my grace
is the greatest.

I display this
humanness
by touching depths
I haven’t even
swam in yet.

I drown in
the sound of men
woman and children
moaning,
begging
for a living,
when no help is given
by those in power
who have been
taking without returning
a single cent
of human decency.

I can write clearly,
because I have time
to edit each line,
the same ones
which I hide behind
and pretend that I
am helping
when I am just
doing enough
to not be
the enemy,
less of an ally
and more of a lubricant
that helps
my own guilt
slide off
the walls I built.

I have tried
to understand
how those
who were denied
a helping hand felt
and mirror it
in my poetics.

But I am pathetic,
self-indulgent
pain appropriating
social movement
inactive student.

Taking out loans
I never plan
to payback,
other than
in writing
human events.

Some say,
I am a good man,
but I feel unworthy,
uncomfortable
because even though
they heard me
I don’t think
they were listening.

Life is a prison,
and I am self-convicting,
admitting that in my laziness,
I might as well be complicit.
I write so later on I can ignore it.

Work hard to explore,
then exploit what I didn’t earn,
take all that I have learned
and try to make a better world,

but no matter what I do
I feel like a poser.
Even when I am trying to help you,
I feel like a cheap magician trick exposer.

Though, I am trying to foster,
a compassion movement,
I am just an empathetic
poem writing imposter.