Tattered clothes,
worn-out shoes,
Poverty stricken body,
They go by wobbling on the street,
Like stray dogs searching for food.
They have no home to go back to.
They have no family to love.
Love is nothing but a stranger,
survival is what they know.
They never knew love,
not that of a parent,
Or that of a friend.
They grew up believing
the world is nothing but cruel and cold,
So they became just that.
Dream is a privilege
they can't afford to have.
Their hope has been
long dead and buried.
Their futures been crushed
right from the start.
To the society they're a disease.
They're a plague that should be avoided
at all cost.
Their distant cries growing numb
from the hate you give.
They're left to rot,
to fight amongst themselves for survival,
as far as the outer cycle is not affected,
They can die for all the society cares.
You think they're killing themselves?
These people have been killed
right from the start.
Not by knives or bullets,
but by the cruel society
that eats them slowly
till they're reduced to nothing
but an empty shell.
So they live their lives on the line
for who cares,
so they hurt others before they can hurt them for that's their own way of survival.
Their now blighted hearts
devoid of nothing but venom.
They've changed their tune
and you're now taking the fall.
Now you're blaming them?
The hate you give
Is what you get in return,
with much more vigor.



© Khadija Kyari