Fight The Fight
To wake up in a foreign land,
weak and withered is every green grass.
The bareness of every inch is deep to the core,
every rock is harder as you go.
With no water to drink, it rains not,
as you grow so does a cost.
What grows is just pain and hunger,
you grow handy with unpaid bills.
Inured but not intimately lured,
each day creates LED they said.
You have the tools and equipment,
to make this land peacefully pleasant.
(C) All Rights Reserved. Poem Submitted on 08/06/2020
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