Chance (A Poem)

I wrote this poem when I was sixteen about poverty within America and cultural motifs of the American Dream.

The fire sun burning my vision

Closes my eyes to the world lighted around me.

Eyelids fluttering,

I’m forever closed off from this barren land.

 

Dream.

Someplace else.

 

Cool, wet grass of the morning.

The sun’s reflection shining on my face,

Also reflecting

into a gleaming pond

of opportunity.

 

Wakefulness.

Eyes wide open

to a cruel,

desert

Land.

 

Running toward

a mirage of gold

surrounding our home.

 

This is our American dream.

Born into the desert

without wings,

we’re expected to fly.

 

Fly up

into a different world,

where deserts are hidden

beneath storm clouds of fear,

and the grass always grows

beneath sunny, wet tears.

 

So, blocked by the storm clouds

of our complacency,

we steal luck

and create this perfect fantasy.

We are lucky to be born

away from the desert.

But it makes us forget

how ugly chance can be.

We could have been born

in the very same desert

or people who we

close our eyes to not see.

 

We must open our eyes,

clear the storm clouds below,

make the sun shine

and end the desert of sorrow.

 

Blessed with riches,

Given freewill.

This is our chance

to determine tomorrow.

 

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