This is not a poem; This is a question

The difference between them and me, you ask?

I would sell my soul if any of you
could guarantee me
a life free of sorrow
for the pan-handler down the street.

but they, they won't sell a tiny portion
of their assets
even to the hardworking many
who slave for their company.

Sometimes I wish I was
Martin Luther King Jr.'s daughter.
In hopes I'd be born with the
drowning desire to carry out
my father's legacy.

Because he fought for the good hearted.

And I don't know what's so bad about
wanting to feel good

but I don't feel like a majority of us are
on the same page here.

Let's slow down
for one minute.
Close our eyes.
and take a deep breath.

Let's smile at everyone we pass on the street.
And stop being concerned about who's is what's
or mine or yours, or their's or ours
or how many calories are in our bagels.

Let's eat dinner together and hopefully plan for breakfast.

Let's wake up when our bodies tell us to
instead of pushing snooze on the alarm.

Let's sleep in a couple extra minutes
with our lovers and roll around in the sheet covers.

Let's answer our children's questions with the
understanding that every word uttered is an imprint
on a young mind who will one day see the world that
we have created for them.

Everything we do here, is handed to them in the end.

The question is what do we have to give?