Human Race (Only.0001% Of America Is This Way)

To him do
I speak
from where
he has
been
all souls
so crushed
with out
hope

We all
live
die
there
no respite
for it is not
for the money
or that of
spite

In America
we have
indoctronated
mortgage paid
we care
not about
you

Your Blood
is as
meaningingless
as that of
the stars

For if They
cannot control
such mass
what meaning
of life so
you think they
would offer

Proffer

by Uloia Norris Moore

Other poems of NORRIS MOORE (225)

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