You who know poverty in your cries,
Sing lullaby’s filled with heartache in your cords.
You who know that the hand that feeds you is the same hand that breaks you.
You will love it tomorrow, hate it today.
Defend it tomorrow, deny it today.
You who know your grandparents love.
You who were forced to grow up
Before you could grow up.
As your sisters and brothers needed a mother, a father,
And you were the only replacement.
Come, gather around with me in my bond fire.
Telling tales of what it’s like to not
Grow up with silver spoons in our mouths.
Because daddy was too worried about his own problems
And mom was too worried about him
And we were too worried about them.
We will acknowledge that they did worry about us
But that’s because we were the bigger problem
And if we disappeared.
Maybe, just maybe.
They could have their lives back.
So let us burn our worries in this fire.
Watch our pain go up in smoke and it is okay to cry.
It’s incline with our hurt, our pain
That we’ve bared on our backs, our chests, in our tongues and we have scares to showcase.
But we choose to hide them.
Because people judge too much.
They throw pity at us like confetti.
Please do not feed us your “sorry” our bellies are too full of them.
Too full of empty broken promises
That we still hang on to even to this day.
They tell us things will get better.
It seems they get better in reverse.
Now, whoever feels comfortable enough to share?
Let them stand.
The platform is theirs.