This is the poem I am going to read at open mic night
The mother cries for her babies
Hurt by cruelties
of a cold world.
The moon cries for mother earth
who has been packed up, vacum sealed,
shipped off somewhere.
The hobo cries for the business man
Confined to crunching numbers in cubicles
Sealing them off from the world
never seeing its beauty.
But the business man condemns the free spirit as a bum.
The poets cry for suburbia
Living in their fake realm of happiness
Behind their white picket fences
Who only accept conformity to the jones' standards
And are never free.
The world weeps for us
Always stuck between the tracks and never free.
Zombies slowly creeping through
Just copies of each other,
brainwashed by the media.
But we never cry for anything but ourselves.

