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When his small fingers ravages and pillages,
Amongst peels of rotted oranges and bananas,
And colorful,
Green,
White,
Sometimes black,
Fuzzy, yummy French fries,
Mixed in his usual fruitful salad bowl of fruit flies,
Zipping,
Sometimes black,
Fuzzy, yummy French fries,
Mixed in his usual fruitful salad bowl of fruit flies,
Zipping,
Buzzing,
Listen to his surround sound system.
A regular lone audience member,
He sits in his large and empty auditorium,
Four walls of dilapidated cardboard,
Swaying with the winds,
Like a sunflower in the field of a storm.
Tired, he rests his little head,
On ripped, colorful SpongeBob Square Pants printed,
Cushion-filled defecation.
Listen to his surround sound system.
A regular lone audience member,
He sits in his large and empty auditorium,
Four walls of dilapidated cardboard,
Swaying with the winds,
Like a sunflower in the field of a storm.
Tired, he rests his little head,
On ripped, colorful SpongeBob Square Pants printed,
Cushion-filled defecation.
He is never hungry.
Why does a person deserve to live?
Somewhere over the rainbow…
Why does a person deserve to live?
Somewhere over the rainbow…
When I find her shivering, curled up like a precious baby girl,
Exhausted, she clicks her six-inch hot pink heels together,
It’s not Kansas anymore.
She’s tired from doing her nighttime dance,
All men are entranced, by her theatrical feats.
A big time actress in her hood,
She returns to her mansion of expanse-filled space,
Loud horns, car engines engaging in their orchestra,
Deafening barks and thunderous daily screams,
From guns, are her neighbors,
Who share her dark, starry eyed living room,
She’s never lonely.
Why does a person deserve to live?
Somewhere over the rainbow…
When he creates his own cold, prison cell,
Moats, iron-barred gates, only one entrance,
Will allow you in…
To his,
Hell.
Restrained with a cactus made straight jacket,
Prickly thorns rapidly grew.
He never speaks,
Mute to the world.
Yet, we only hear his voice, when his small arms,
Ferociously,
Shoves,
Scratches,
And rips through his jacket,
Reaching out for,
Our sun’s warmth,
He shivers.
I feel his calloused and scarred arms,
Like icy stalactites in December,
The ice melts ever so slowly,
Slowly, dripping like a leaky, broken faucet,
Waiting and ready to burst.
He still waits.
Why do they deserve to live?
Yes, they deserve to eat.
Yes, they deserve to be treated equally.
Most of all we deserve love.
Don’t we?
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