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Rated: E · Poetry · Political · #1960160
People farming, done wrong.
The world is a farm, my soul her crop
I grow underneath the sunlight
Full of colour, full of splendour
I sprout into the sky

I am fed nutrition by a television
The media is the chubby farm hand
Tending to the crops with great precision
Developing minds are in great demand

For now I am fully grown
To a desk I am promptly shown
The reaper comes and now it is known
My soul is something I no longer own

© Copyright 2013 Ulysses Worthington (kylef_1997 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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