mannequin people

I hear their cries,
hear them screaming,
crying cannot ease the pain,
An anger boils inside them,
like a bursting lava,
making sounds of hidden pain,
and mixed emotions,
they will never smile
and technically,
who smiles when they are torn apart,
Just mannequins, though humans never cease to cry,
It makes my mind go vivid,
as I hear a thousand gunshots,
with these slingers so committed,
aiming guns at all these children,
from the slums, living in poverty.
No food to eat, and mothers, fathers,
all addicted, consciousness intoxicated
Alcoholics, junkies, hookers,
scrap collectors, non-supporters,
half of them are living with no,
life support, they can't afford,
to live without their souls,
seems like they need the Lord,
I see their bruises;
dead like mannequins...
living life so clueless,
but constantly they're used.
I see their wounds, they're bleeding, lying there in pain. They seem so numb, as though decaying...
And wounded by the hand of their oppressor, but they suffer,
while their wounds all look like bulletholes,
If only we could hear their cries, as though they were alive, if only mannequins were breathing, living,
don't you think we'll see, see the many bruises given by this life and all she gives, despite their wounds appearing hollow,
like they're bullet holes,
of sorrow,
they hide it with graffiti.
Every time a new tomorrow...
Moved around like mannequins and clothed by another,
meant to stay in one position; bite their tongues so they won't speak. They'll never know their cries or bruises,
their painful, deep emotions,
but the world will never know why_
mannequins don't choose to cry.

This poem is about: 
My community

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