Chicken Scratch
I do not have a name.
I have three friends
To talk to, one behind
And two beside.
They’re the only ones close enough.
We love to chat, but
Sometimes we argue
Because we’re all frustrated
With our boring, painful life.
A floor, a ceiling, two walls,
All made of metal, all bars
Imprisoned simply for being born.
Every day we wonder what they want,
Why they took us as children
Burned and branded our faces
And put us in this cruel place
That smells like waste and death.
My feet hurt. They always do.
I want to be outside.
I don’t know what’s out there,
But it has to be better.
When they open the doors,
I see something wonderful.
I see green and blue and this
Beautiful glowing,
Not like the dim, dirty, dusty light
That seeps through cracks
And shuttered windows.
I do not have a name.
No one ever gave me a name,
Because no one knows—
No one cares—who I am.
There are people on the outside,
People like you,
People like our wardens.
Though I have only seen a few,
I believe there are more.
Do you on the outside
Know about us in here,
In the dark?
Sometimes, I try to talk
To the wardens,
To give a message to their people
Beg for you to take us
Somewhere better.
If you understood us,
I think you would agree
That this is not fair,
That this is not right.
We do not deserve
What has been done to us.
But no one listens.
I suppose I can
Understand
Why
I am are ignored:
I do not know your words.
To you it’s just chicken scratch.