we are the children born of machinery.
strobe street lights dimly lighting a path never walked
down dark, vacant streets that bend and curl into oblivion
ni de aquí, ni de allá
a language borrowed,
taught to me by hope and faith
but lost in translation.
i am product
of my parent's sacrifice,
who traversed cracked, orange landscapes
and empty higways
in junk cars
or torn sneakers
to make it here.
but at what cost?
i am an alien.
alien to my parents and their land;
green and fertile pastures they describe to me
in passing. somewhere with cleaner air,
with people you recognize.
but that is not MY home.
alien to this country
that sees me as color,
a welfare check,
born and raised
in the rotting carcase
of long dead
living in regimented barracks,
stocking up on workers this country needs.
so what am i?
i'm alien to myself.
one of many of this lost generation
with only the sweat, blood, and tears of our parents to guide us.
what we needed was a torch and compass.
our story is one
written in a different hand and pen,
onto an entriely different paper
with an uncertain ending.