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

Who are they? Who are we?

Is it better sugar free?

All these experts seem to say

We ruin ourselves day to day.

Is it even practical,

In the realm of possible--

To act and eat and talk and say

What all of 'them' want, every day?

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 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?

The voices in your head always say

"Lets just ignore them."

But in your mind three words stem.

Who are they?

A question for another day

as your mind tucks those thoughts away.

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?