the pot is empty,
just like the pockets I call my shorts,
mama can bearly send me to school,
knowing I would ask for coins;
When last did you see us laugh?
a thing so strange,
just like the golden mat we call bed,
we crave to lie each day to rest,
knowing that the end will justify the means;
When last did you see me cry?
not too old,
yet, I bury my head with pride,
and pray that I see another day,
hoping that my generation will be better than the rest.
akinbo a. a. cornerstone
« return.