A WOUNDED HEART.
Tied in the bond of hate,
Twinges in my heart, a taste
from the treat life gave the great.
With a swift alacrity, my heart will yet relate
the tack trajectory unweavering faith
which the just and poor is subdued to take.
Why! Why will men defend pernicious treat,
to achieve their perpetual taste?
Come to the market and see wonders
the peasants and paupers.
In their emaciated bones and tatered
clothes meandering around with hope splinter.
Smelling food afar
but throat dried. A blur presenter.
The bit in my care,
all blown in a tin air.
A better fine rag i wear
is life to the less privilege free and fair.
For the tears of the land they are made to bear.
As pains around later they share.
The riches of the rich here and there,
a product of their tears.
My heart is wounded, my heart bleeds.
My heart cries, to quench subdue their greed,
and attain their soppy twee,
they are made to till the land with teeth.
Where is the fare democracy?
who shalt yet come to speak
on their behalf to to retrive the key?
That binds equality a royal beeds.
THE BLEEDING PEN
GIANT INK MAKING IMPACTS
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