• gods_hand_mistake 6w

    We,the Downtrodden

    Three times a day I stare at my hand hoping to see grains
    but through the spaces between my fingers I see my Indian soil,
    Often I look at my clothes
    but through the holes of my attire all I could see is my brown bones covered with a layer of skin,
    A skin decorated with scars
    Earned,not from the wars but from the stray dogs who fight with me for the food from a trash can,
    My sister is luckier as she was killed in womb and will never face a slum life,
    My mother,the bravest,worked for me though she knew that virus would inflict her,
    The orphanage would be a heaven to me but this life is what I am,
    We the deprived,we the ugly,we the stinking,we the fools would die to be born like these again...