take a poor, fat, spiced chocolate kid
from its welfare house
put it in a program with rich kids,
tell it it can be just like that,
if it learns critical thinking,
logical reasoning, communication,
and problem solving.
[falls asleep in a dumpster]
no one accounted for the rest of the hillbilly family.
school officials build a false sense of equitable hope,
and wear their badges with a flair of pride.
guess what i learned at school today!
not now, hon, we're watching dr. phil.
then, it's my 600lb life.
then judge judy.
then house hunters.
then the price is right.
this ******* thing came to this:
two brains, sever and split.
two pigs, top of the town,
made marquee marked on the ground!
i'm smothered, but
the fourth wall's
done getting scraped!
version one point one was nothing new,
these scrapes make room for version one point two.
n if you have a clue
pork who watches you move
will be taking notes
this ***** knows how it goes
n if you have a plan
pork who watches you move
will catch it, understand
this ***** is stealing souls
keep it under the knife
surgeon and patient
ship and astronaut
i know well the fear as it manifests
in the dampness come night
dollar bills burn hot in pocket
the reddened skin of my inner thighs
fights to fray the cloth, but i
i'm better off sleeping in my pants
and my shoes, as to evade
then this thing clicks and the misfit
cuts come to fall into plan
by design, without fail, buy and sell
then there's me, this thing replete
with confidence in its destruction
by its hand, or on demand, its a
matter of course lightbulb!
We must become far more than what the system wants us to be.
We are surpassing standards our peers have failed to reach.
We are achieving goals and making it to places
our ancestors once dreamed.
We are living the wildest dreams of those before us.
We are going to places not even some of
our parents have been to or seen.
Who are you becoming?
XLVII. FROM THE SLUMS
With the weight of responsibility of trying to secure a future for one's family, with the pressures of progressing and "making it" in life, there are those who are fighting and pushing forward! While people sit back, comfortably, living crowded and messy lives, and living from check to check, there's a people focused on marching ahead... In no way am I replacing faith with "success" but there's a difference in doing what you can and trusting the process from remaining comfortable in circumstances that weren't meant to be permanent in the first place!
The smell of stale smoke lingers through our hair,
A staunch like presence,
but never fully there.
Yellow stained fingers,
and blood soaked knuckles..
hammy-downs that don’t fit quite right, awake critiquing ourselves late at night.
Hoping and preying not to become what we’re destined to be.
Drifting through the slums,
Seeking some kind of pleasure.
Friends and family succumbing to ice,
Melbourne’s national treasure.
Young souls corrupted,
so much potential forsaken.
And it’s total annihilation.
I was brought up in Western Leeds,
Almost two miles from the nearest cow or sheep.
In sprawling suburbs:
Row after row of smoke stained redbrick slums.
We had our fields:
Jungles of Rose Bay Willow Herb
(Fireweed to the Americans)
On former demolition sites.
Our childhood spears were honed
From fireweed spears.
Our house was in a terrace
On “School Street”,
Where we took baths in the sink
And crept to outside toilets
In the dark of the “back yard”.
Those days were punctuated
By the “Yie Yie” blare
From the local factory siren.
A deafening sound.
And by endless hammering
From the scrapyard nearby.
But we loved our dripping and bread,
And our walks to the sweet shop.
Playing hopscotch on those stone “flags”
Along the sides of the cobbled street
Under old Victorian gas lamps
Straight from Narnia.
I recall crying on our return from the coast
At a dismal scene
Of soot shrouded trains
On tortured railway lines.
But I also feel nostalgia
For those heady days
Of childhood innocence.
Wearing a cardboard box as a space suit,
And running around
During a “New Year’s Revolution”.
This maybe explains a lot.
The girl from the slums
She was told she was dumb
That she'd never grow old to be anyone
The guy from the street
He was bullied and beat
Told to just shut up and sit in his seat
That's what they say
That's not what You say!
You say that she's loved
That You're more than enough
To get her through life even when it's tough
You say that You're proud
And You say it out loud
Whenever he's lost he will always be found
That's what You say!
And that's what counts.
Imagine waking up on a filthy, uneven floor -
light coming solely through the flimsy wooden wall.
Imagine trudging through the mud barefoot -
mud merged with remnants of God knows who.
Imagine breathing in thick layers of sooty dust -
the colors sullen, lifeless and dull.
Imagine smelling the scent of faeces and decay,
of diseases and of death every single day.
Imagine your belly gurgling with hunger and distraught,
sniffing glue - the only way to delude.
Imagine walking on rickety bridges -
a step amiss and drown you will in these murky watery ditches.
Imagine wearing the same old rags - all tattered and torn,
being beaten and battered, no rights of which to call your own.
Imagine having silly daydreams of going to school
but there's not a penny to spare - not even for a worn-out book.
But alas, imagine no more for such children exist,
with ghosts clouding their starry dreams
And death hanging heavy upon their tiny, little feet.