Someone sleeps behind the corner of the foodlion

I am,

left behind by a friend taken away by some thing

that's used as a joke as the tears break me down and

build a stronger bond between myself and my family.

I am  d

                i

                      v

                              i

                                    n

                                            g into a world unknown by me, 

a world that my teachers warned me about, the "real" world. 

I live in this world where a woman is forced into an alleyway by a large man and is stripped of not only her clothes but her pride, and raped; and happens to multiple people of all race and gender every day

I go to school, pay my taxes, and wait on graduation as I do the first and the fifteenth of every month.

Body parts go flying,

The NSA is spying,

Leaving us to die.

I am politically involved, 

but noone around me seems to care,

the world is about to end,

for this right leaning libertarian. 

Why listen to the facts,

that would just be bad,

just vote for the party 

as do your mom and dad.

Diseil engines of tanks sputter,

The tired marine mutters,

"young is the time to be creative before you're cookie cutter."

As the lights fall on the play of our government the lights shine dim,

The girl in the polka dot dress runs out and yells,"We got him!"

The american pride has suffered some aesthenia,

and it wasn't our fault our governent funded Al-Qaeda. 

Someone sleeps behind the corner of foodlion,

I want to bring him a blanket, or some food,

but why have I never done so?

It is and is not my fault. 

I digress.

I am me, are you?

I love poetry, as you do,

but that doesn't make you, me; me, you. 

Two of me against one of you takes alot of you against 

the fight in ye. 

I am that average white kid,

who grew up in that suburban neighborhood,

adopted into a middle class family,

who went to the average pass rate high shcool,

and played soccer his sophmore year,

I am that kid who prefers to be with a small group friends around a bonfire,

than be at a house party where the place burns down from an actual fire,

I feel something in my chest,

as I am writing this,

something that drives me, 

to write what I really feel,

a particular feeling I only get when I read poetry,

or when I try to understand what another person is feeling(scared?Pride?),

It lets me know, that myself, among 7 billion people, am different, and capable of doing anything.