I lay in my bed with my pillows and blankets wrapped around me like a cocoon, the heater keeping the air at a warm-enough 66 degrees as this roof sits over my head and the walls circle around me keeping the snow out, and I say 'When is it my time?'. I lay in my bed with my light on and it illuminates the shadows and I see just outside my door, the kitchen, with a fridge full to the brim with food and drink and running water in the sink and an oven to cook out all the bacteria from my food so that I can eat, and I say 'When is it my time?'. I lay in my bed and outside my window I see a car, my link to the outside world, this pristine-filled with gas-driving machine that takes me to work and school so I can live my dream, and I say, 'When is it my time'?. I lay in my bed, and I forget for a moment, about every other living person out there, those that I know and those that I don't. Those without homes. Those without stoves, those without soles in their shoes. Those like me and those like you.
Those who were given a chance, those who were given a smack when they messed up daddy's dinner that they didn't even know how to make. Those who take from the stores what they need but can't afford cause they ain't had a job in a year cause no one wants a ***** off the street like you. Those who take from the poor. Those who are pumping your gas cause they couldn't pass a standardized test or make it to class. Those without a chance, and those without a choice or a voice of their own, who are given drugs and guns, and are told that 'man, if you wanna make it out here, you're gonna have to learn to ****'. Those who cry at night, cause even if they try with all their might, they're still given such a fright by their spouse that they can't just walk out. Those that are old. Those that are told 'you'll be doing a great service to your country son', and then they're given a gun and taught to **** against their will and have to come home ill cause they don't understand what they have done. Those with sons and daughters that they can't feed, that they beat cause 'that's what my daddy used to do to me, you see?'. Those with feet that aren't covered in shoes. Those who lose, and those with ***** filling the bottles they clutch in their hand cause they can’t stand the cold no more and the juice keeps them a little warm as the snow comes down on the bench where they’ll be sleeping tonight. Those who die, cause they were so desperate to fly away from here that they put a little too much in the needle this time. Those who lie just to try and get by. Those who were seeking affection but were lacking direction and therefore were lacking protection and then had those three choices and had to make a selection. Those who were striving for perfection but instead were driven to intravenous injection and every morning have to watch their own resurrection cause they’re sure a part of them died the night before. Those who are sore when they walk in the door after working 13 hours and they still have to cook dinner and put the kids to bed and there’s still that pile of laundry. Those who’ll smile cause they hope that things will be better, just in a little while. Those that are tired, and those who are trying. Those who are living. Those who are dying.
I lay in my bed and I forget about them, I ignore them till they go away and I say, as I look at my stuff and decide it's not enough and I say, with this dollar in my pocket and plastic in my wallet and I say, as I lay in my warm bed with no ache in my head and I say, 'When is it my time to finally have something go right?'.
This piece was written as a spoken-word poem, and has been presented so far in that fashion. Although I do enjoy it better when it's presented as spoken-word, when read I believe the message is still put across well. The poem was inspired by the novel "Last Exit to Brooklyn" by Hubert Selby Jr., as well as conversations involving privilege and oppression through a feminist lens. Some of the topics discussed in the piece can be difficult to read for some individuals.