We are the weak ones
The ones that bring fourth anew
The ones that part the clouds and tell the storms to stop.
We are the poor and hurt
we are the ones harmed, the ones to be moved-as if we aren't mountains ourselves.
We are a resource, to be bartered over and something to shed blood over.
But they won't fight for us
But they will pass us along like cheap, stolen, rum.
They break us when we burn their throats, but didn't they know we would fight back?
We are, although broken down, dirty and scared, unsure of home because we've never had a place we could call home
We are the bringers of light
And we are no more weak than they are
YOU ARE READING
poems and short stories
Randompreviously "fireworks reflected in your eyes" I don't feel like that fit the piece anymore, and I needed a change but I still want it to be taken seriously. My earlier work (earlier chapters) are worse please stick em out and read the good stuff ♡♡ ...
