maybe the broken ones are the most perfect
they are those with broad shoulders
shaded with bruises
outlined with scars
accented with scabs
they are those without names
broken and shattered
torn and tattered
black eyes look hollow
you can barely swallow
they are those with big hands
callouses caress their fingertips
your fingers trace their lips
they are the gentle giants
that will sing you to sleep
with voices soft and gentle
they are those with steady breathing
who will hold you when you're grieving
ground you when you're screaming
in anguish rage and pain
they may be gnarled
but their roots will wrap you up
sustain your sanity
and make you smile
Immigrants
Who are they?
They are you
Stumbling through life
Trying to make a living
Wanting to protect
Those they love
They came here
For a better life
Yet we turn our backs on them
Slanderous
Hateful words
Thrown like acid on the skin
Why?
Because we have shut our doors
So much for freedom
And land of opportunity
We would rather cast stones
Deport
Asking the wrong questions
They have never hurt anyone
Yet we treat them worse then criminals
Terrorists we call them
Simply because of their faith
Nationality
Or because
"They don't look like me"
But they are
Just like you
Should we deport you too?
They
They are the forgotten ones, the unfortunates, the ones for whom success was just too out of reach.
You can see them in dark alleys as they rummage for food scraps, always hiding their faces from view, ashamed that life beat them down and embarrassed by their demeanour and filth.
They're the ones who's Christmas will be celebrated with a handout, maybe a bowl of lukewarm broth and some bread, maybe.
They're the ones who shuffle by and avoid eye contact, for fear that you'll see the pain of being worthless, the dregs of humanity who deserve all they get for not having luck on their side.
Maybe they ended up homeless by design, or maybe they just made a mistake along the way, either way they cannot fall further from grace than the gutter, there's nowhere lower than that. Even our worst criminals get housed for free.
But not them.
Who are they? Your foreseen opposition that holds you back from that which you love? Who gives the power over your thoughts and words but yourself? You alone give them the strength to force into a small concrete cubical where the only thing you can hear are thoughts that are not your own and breath that you no longer wish to take.
Day in and day out at you slough at your work, till your fingers bleed with pride and your gaze falters because you have been staring past the expiration date of time into the oblivion that you've come to know as your future.
Who are they? The shadows that darken your brightest days? The ones that send your mood into an overcast gray on days you wish the world would stop turning if only for a moment so you could be given a break.
Who are they that judge your scars?
Your past?
Your trials and tribulations?
Are they those whom you've come to think?
Or simply yourself looking through another piece of glass?