John D Robinson


How can he write when
there is blood on his hands,
destruction upon his breath,
hope between his fingertips,
love an explosion sprinting
through his blood,
how can he write when 
people are dying of hunger,
of disease and madness
and violence,
how can he write when
water is gold and the air
strangled and polluted,
when girls and women are
violated at the vileness
of men in every village,
town and city across
the globe,
when the planet is acting
out suicide before his eyes,
how can he write?
because he has to,
he has no choice,
it’s all he can
fucking do.

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