Poetry

Poetry: Tomato

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Tomato, that is my name.
I am still perplexed in this confusing world.

Before the sun kisses me and wipes off those dew,

I am still being referred to as a murderer.

Before that incandescence war,

Which the defeated weeps more,

Because many more died.

And the victors rejoice,

Because fewer died,

The same sad story, only a matter of difference in numbers.

I am still referred to as a murderer.

As if I was the referee.

Why should people go around calling me a murderer?

Oh, poor tomato, what’s my crime?

Until I heard the answer from that grey woman at the corner,

I was shocked.

Everyone is saying I have red gums.

That makes me a cannibal.

But tell me, who has white ones?

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