If you don't know why you're alive
You are not living.
Time isn't ours to take
But if you get caught giving it back
You are not living.
We are sick, any healthy mind would surely infer
I am not living.
We print our dollars with materials from the Earth
And with every cent, we gauge ourselves good or bad.
As my worth eroded before me
As my brother took his last breath
As I was chained to the walls of a broken home
Not once did I concern myself with money
If I die tomorrow, read this one.
I am not sorry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem