CHURCH Even when I’m writing this poem, I’m unsure whether I’ll present to them, Who? You know, the people in that service, It’s going to be for the rest of my Sundays, Breaking this comfy habit, Which, addicts me like eating dirt, That despite the consequences, I’m convinced of escaping with adequate taking fluids, It is my custom routine, Rising at noon, Imagining a plan, Probably from young rich, Far, the thought, far… from the church. Born and raised in the church, Like everyone claims as such, I had this intriguing concern, In this church, is everyone poverty stricken? Pray, pray, pray, POOR! Everyone? Even pastor? Why not sing, sing, sing RICH? Why not thank for eating good fish? Other than feeling better with omena and animal intestines, Which, to many in the slums and street homes that’s pure riches. The dynamics of life, One is always in strife, Could we be following the wrong god blindly? Its in the documentary,...