This piece was written in memory of poor lost souls, I wrote it so we never forget what it’s like to suffer. If it offends you, then read it again to comprehend a part of life that many of us are not accustomed to. Peace be with those who are not with us here on Earth anymore. I pray that God humbles us, and gives us all the strength to sacrifice our gifts to make the world better.
The truth is that we have no homeland. We roam through the night searching for food in dumpsters. We’ve been beaten up by thugs and we’re on the corner begging for food.
The truth is that we have no homeland, we don’t know the rules, we’re unhealthy and toxic to those reaching for the finer things in life.
We’re criminally unstable, invidious of haunted jail cells fighting others who wear an orange outfit because we’re haunted by the visions that killed our relatives slowly. All of the customs of our identity have been reused against us for our own good and honestly, we don’t know who we are. The art that we paint on abandoned structures is never priceless until found centuries later.
We fled our native country in search for a dream but found ourselves in chains worse than we were before we fled. We’re a symbol of God’s suffering flesh on a cross by those battling with their own curse and our prayers are conflicted with human ambitions. Where is our place in history? We’re lost in a world because we don’t know. We played the lottery only to find out that our dollars still cannot buy us happiness. Sick, only to find out that we can’t afford the cure.
Yes, we’re the lost and unfortunate, we played the game and lost. We broke the law and got life. We’re dying on a cross dreaming of saving our own creation from their sins. We’re the nobodies building the pyramids, we’re slaves crucified by our own people for trying to get to freedom.
We’re on a plane trying to figure out what the people are saying while our brothers and sisters hold our hand as we prepare for another challenge. Every day we die slowly, suffering from malnutrition and we have no friends. The dirt on our clothes is a symbol that we have tried to crawl out of the filthy pits of hell. The chains that bind us together, the tears that we cry, and the left over food that we eat, are all engrained into the truths that we hold dear.
The truth is that we have no homeland and we didn’t make the rules. We wander from place to place, enlisting in kingdoms that we don’t belong to and the knowledge that we partake of is not our own. As the world spins on without us, we die a thousand times, conquering barbed wires, using drugs sold by drug dealers to numb the pain, and sold as sex slaves while those fighting for us are hosed and beaten lifeless dreaming of heroism. This is the side of the fence where there is no greener grass, where the savior is a mystery novel that we may not have read but we must try to relate to, and any hope is beaten out of us. We die a thousand times and our stories are set on fire in the libraries conquered by dictators. Our passions are left at altars riddled with memories of nooses and other objects sprinkled in the foundations of a lost history.
The truth is that we have no homeland and everyday that we awake we find ourselves alone in a psychological struggle, asleep and ignorant of what really drives the world. Inkling thoughts of a sinner drowning in their own guilt because they cannot save us. We’re lost, on the streets wondering why our families are fading away from the woes of drug infested communities while we drown in rivers trying to flee to the promised land. Even as a soldier fighting for freedom, we’re haunted by memories of a littered past filled with symbols, death camps , and dreams of heaven while escaping bomb littered streets of black soot and polluted air raining acid on our parade. Demented betrayal of lovers trying to come home as children are separated in a brutal divorce. Ailing images of our favorite team losing every game and as we take our last breath, executed in the hot blistering sun, we reach for a piece of the world that we’ve never known, a place to call home.
Chronicles of the lost and unfortunate.
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