The Guilty Poet Poem by Not Long Left

under the late lights of the night,
warm and at futile ease,
poems flow, a mind is appeased,
typing rhythmic words of little worth,
its easy for me,
i have what so many other foriegn
minds do not,
and here i sit,
feeling like a lost ship,
in fields of heavy clouds,
whilst others starve,
i can laugh with friends,
whilst others have no home,
i can write poems on my phone,
whilst others battle wars,
i moan about stupid house hold chores,
the majority of minds,
are chanelled to there own despair,
i wish, wish so damn hard,
that i will find it in me to not
just care about the crumbling,
hopes of others,
but to step out of the sea,
of my own misery,
and spread the seed,
of hope upon the lands,
but until these hands are untied,
i shall continue to sit,
under the ever ready night light,
and put pen to paper,
without ever really changing a thing,
if every poet could sing,
how much more hope,
could they bring.