The Poet’s Fight

Hello morning.
My eyes are weary
and my muscles full of
anticipation.

The sun is bright,
the air is warm.
Consciousness sets in
and a new day has come.

My part is here in
the play of life.
I am the saviour
and the damned.
Each day I live
and each day I fight.

People sometimes ask me why
I care so much
about this “wretched world.”
A friend of mine,
down on her luck,
asked me,
“What the hell are you fighting for?”

Beside the blind man
stands his dog
who acts as his eyes
as he walks in the sun,
without fear of what obstacles
could stand in his way.

A little girl
hops down the sidewalk
clinging tightly to her mother’s
right hand,
a smile on her face,
ready to meet the world
with an innocence so pure
it makes clear water look murky.


A little boy who can’t understand
why the kids at school
are so mean to him
and why he feels
so alone.

The lives unlived because
they don’t have the means,
the deaths in vain because
nobody learns from their lives.

I fight for them
without weapon or closed fist.
I fight for them
with words and verse.

She asked me,
“What do you get
out of all of this?”

I replied,
“I get to see tomorrow,
and it never lets me down.”