My shoes, are worn, ripped, torn.
I am lucky, to have shoes at all.
I am kicked, ignored, beaten.
Yet, I speak not a sound.
Life here is like a jail cell with no escape.
Except here there are people who taunt you, belittle you.
As if I am below them, unworthy.
Because life here, is not a life.
My skin, is covered, in numerous bruises.
I sometimes wonder, is it because of it that I am unworthy?
Is it because my skin is not the color of a peach?
That is darker than midnight without a moon.
I wonder in this as the living mummies sleep.
I get the feeling, I will never get an answer.