Blessed be the hands
that weave the threads
pick the plants
overworked bodies of a forgotten war
wounded of Vietnam
Left open sores
That comprise my clothes
Cover my toes
Whose children breathe in sharp dust
little ones of Africa
held hostage working in open graves
Mines of must
tiny hands in cramped spaces
Death insurance, one has gone
beast of our longing, snapping commercials
Trap 2.0
Blessed are the bodies that have become as clay unto the earth to soon
robbed from their parents in an effort to get paid
a complex narration of monopoly money
driving force, grandmas hands
Chinese sweat shop, work of desperate land
crystallized lies
the sewing circuit, energy of youth drained
over heated, over worked and told
to hide the blame
silent cry of women roar
As pocketed stocks soar
Bombs over Bangladesh
while children weep
stepping over dead bodies
while making shoes for our feet
robbed from their parents in an effort to get paid
House built on sand
errors been made
woe to the creators of this silent war
taking our lives in the name of who?
And who knows what for
