What Do We Do
Poem #32
What do we do
when there is no help?
When we’re stuck in a void
spiraling downward
from things out of our control?
Hands push us down,
hands rip us apart,
away from love.
Torn from the arms
of those who cared,
our feelings
shredded
by a boundless evil.
Once strong bonds
of family,
of friends,
now frayed
by poison.
Why? How?
What goes on in your minds?
You who stand for nothing.
Who rely on those with labels
of influence with no substance?
Or those whose expertise
are only fueled by dollars,
NOT for the good
of any human being.
You reap what you sow.
And now we all suffer.
Where is the help?
Where is the help?
Where is the help?
Is it too late?
Quick Note from the Author:
I first wrote this poem and published a version on Notes, but I felt it deserved a place in my collection, so here it is now. A heartfelt Thank You for your attention to these words. I ask you to please share it if it resonates with you.
It’s not too late. The poem itself is proof—there’s still breath, still poetry, still resistance. Even in the void, this speaks life.
This is so deep!