A protest poem

Mrs Mary is locked up

doesn’t dare to look outside 

she knows the danger

that it can bring to her eyes

she prefers to ignore 

and live good inside 

she doesn’t care about the protests

and the problems of humankind  

she chooses to close her window 

to the lost lives 

to the hurt families 

and the racial fight

it does not affect

her perfect little life 

it is just black’s problems 

and thankfully she is white 

she keep the TV off

this way she can feel alright 

she claims that these bad news 

brings no good to her healthy mind

sometimes before fall asleep 

she hears during the night 

the cry of a mother

who lost her child(?)

Peter was shot at home 

while happily played kite 

“ok so probably God thought 

it had come his time”

she just moves on the bed 

and turn off the light 

while the streets

 is full of dynamites 

I think to myself, when I write 

To Mrs Mary get off her house,

how many Peters have to die?