• There is a small Island for refugees of this terrible world we call Earth. So many are left to die while some will eat on a golden platter that could eaily feed and cure the sick and dying.
    Honest people are left on their hands begging or spare change while those who can decieve are rewarded. I believe there is never an honest dollar, that dollar is contaminated with the blood, sweat, and tears of those with less fortune than ourselves. Even after this short little poem is written and overlooked no one will care, people will die. I ask you, are you a refugee on the Island, or are you causing the chaos to swell causing more destruction?