Out There

Between city skyscrapers,

there is a woman who lost her virginity to a man she didn't know.

He was old enough to be her father,

And forced her to do his bidding as a business dealer

with no time for negotiation.

He committed the dishonour,

yet she is the one who lost her worth.

Nonetheless--

She should've been thankful someone wanted her in such a fashion.

Beneath the trees of the suburbs,

there is a man who's struck by his lover as the streetlamps 

bathe their lawns in fools' gold.

She weeps into his spots of black--

as though the salted water might pale them to white--

for she'd never hurt him if he didn't provoked her.

fight back--

she'd be the victim.

He cannot dare utter for help--

only curse the splotches of the night sky across his flesh--

because that would be weak.

Relationships are meant to last.

Besides:

She's a woman, and womencannot be the cat,

and men cannot be the mouse.

In the small-town fifty miles South,

There is a black man who's being followed through grocery shops,

Through soup-can aisles,

by employees with the "mandatory duty"

to keep their merchandise on the shelves

and not in his pockets.

It's not because he's had a criminal history;

In fact, he's a lawyer,

with three beautiful children.

It's a judgement call.

He looks suspicious.

"Dark" equates to "Dangerous".

One could go on:

About the woman in the hijab who's thrown words of stone,

such as a "terrorist"

and "innocent victim of Islamic oppression".

Two sides of the same bent coin.

What about the tenth-grade boy

who shatters as glass and sand on his pillow each night?

Are digital letters less severe than the words spat between the teeth

as stones

aimed at his hourglass flesh?

Enough.

Out there, there is no acceptance

unless you fit in a mold

made of gold

and steel.

The world's forgotten that

we all are buried in the same way;

Six feet under,

same earth,

or burned in different urns,

but tossed into the same atmosphere,

and not a soul will care for your casket's price tag.

No,

they'll care for your character's net-worth.

Ask yourself;

if kindness were currency,

how rich would you be?

Out there,

stands you,

watching, waiting,

maybe not caring--

because it isn't you who's being thrown off buildings

like paper airplanes

for being loving a fellow man,

or it being law to walk with your brother

before going outside,

nor are you worrying about becoming a statistic--

reduced to a number rather than name--

on "How many x have been murdered/assaulted/et cetera".

Or,

perhaps you're letter E;

none of the above.

You see or hear the pain.

Your skin soaks the blood spilt on sidewalks,

then claim to understand it.

Fortunately, false.

You cannot scratch a soft line onto your thigh,

and then claim you understand their pain when they were shot thrice

for simply existing.

Act as a red octagon posted on roadways--

Stop claiming you understand,

and start accepting you don't,

Don't mistake that--

it doesn't mean ignore the problem.

It means start doing the right thing instead of doing things right,

because out there,

in desert sands

and tropical trees

there are young girls the age of your daughter

exchanging vows of wet cheeks

and bubbling lungs

with men twice your age.

You can make a difference--

you will make a difference-- 

even if you die for it, for the ones who cannot speak.

Joan of Arc was lit as a torch in the end,

yet is remembered more than the ones who burnt her.

Beyond us,

There's you, me, them.

Suffering, fighting,

loving, hopeful.

Out there,

Is opportunity for change.

You,

with lungs of fire and a throat cast of iron,

have the voice of a messiah.

Use them,

for the ones out there.