A Child Called Untitled

Too often I see poems without a title,
And frankly I never find the time to read them.
I want to know what I’m getting myself into before I read a poem.
If I am having the best day of my life
Do I really want to have fifty gallons of boiling water dumped on me?
There’s a reason paper cups warn you their coffee is hot.
I’m glad to see someone has their stuff together.

What if people were untitled?
No names,
Unable to tell the world what they are made of.
Trying to open their mouths saying
“Look at me!
“Won’t someone just pay attention to me?”
No one looks their way
Because no one wants to spend too much time figuring something out.

Who will be able to hear their cries of pain when their mind is just too much?
The kid who’s in in your last class and hates their medication
Yet for some reason people like them better toned down.
The girl who collects new bruises is if they’re stamps
Although they are definitely less boring.
The boy who hates the way his chest is larger than desired
All because of a chromosome he longs so badly to change.
Who will look after them?

I know these people,
These children.
They gave themselves names
Kids who no longer want to be a statistic with no emotional meaning.
Even if their title isn’t known
At least they are trying.
They are trying
More than the poets and the scholars you praise like glorious golden gods.
So don’t you dare look into my eyes
And say they were a child called untitled.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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