Rock-Bottom

To the girl who’s afraid to wear tight shirts and frilly skirts,

because her round body would bring out rolls

and shorts skirts are only for hoes.

To the boy who jumped into last night’s brawl,

because he had to protect his pride with bloody punches,

and silenced the little voice who said “stop!”

To the lover who drew a red line with her knife,

because her love had forsaken their love,

and she can no longer dream.

To the artist curled up on the park bench without a cent,

because his mother is a junkie and father an alcoholic,

and his masterpieces can only hang from his mind.

To the high school student working seven days a week,

because she is undocumented, not qualified for loans,

and her only weapon to rise, expires next fall.

To the man that struggles to pay the bills,

because no one taught him how to be an adult,

and he wishes to be more than someone in a cubicle.

To the teens lusting for money, sex, and drugs,

because those are the only things that carry familiarity,

and no one has told them there was something more.

To me, the poet who hit rock bottom: let my voice scream!

because my pens will catch every sound,

and tattoo it into every line!