April 11, 1970 (I was 25)
There is enough pain
Not many will question that
Pains strong as blights
They’ve become immune to pesticides
taken refuge in the dark furrows of the brain
They gather in flourishing numbers
I have nourished them with the guilt of a creator
How many pain seeds have I planted today
I farm your mind as you farm mine
with good intentions for a profitable harvest
Then we desert at the first sign of disease
blaming the tenant
hating the seedy wind
I need migrant workers
who have long accepted such things
thoughts with a respect for locusts
black handed surgeons who understand
medicine and agriculture demand more than mechanics
Ideas who know the weeds of others
lie dormant in themselves
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