we are the children born of machinery.

conrete goliaths,

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

and dreams

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.

 

a sacrfice,

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 laborer,

a welfare check,

a rapist,

a murderer.

born and raised

in the rotting carcase

of long dead

industries.

living in regimented barracks,

cement blocks,

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.