First World

By Maria Manuel

Broken poster boards litter the street, 
And a dirty old man on them sleeps
The air is thick with smog and conceit
There’s too much work,
No time to breathe.

The man lost his job along with his soul,
Begged to eat and get out of his hole
Full of student debt and bad mistakes.
He lost his job because he was too sick to work one day.

And it wasn’t good for his mental health. 
Into depression he fell.
Medical debt he couldn’t afford,
So he went on, entangled in his shadows.

He hid crying spells and sleepless nights
Looking at the ground from heavenly heights. 
He must keep his lips shut
Because he’s so lucky to live in a country 
So full of opportunity.

But they don’t dare speak of the sickness 
That sends bullets through infected heads, 
Grey lifeless souls taking their meds, 
Having to work without any rest.

Being happy, he must pretend to be
Because he needs the money.
This country is “free” to many, but 
The fee is life, and one’s own sanity.

So the man sleeps on the poster boards, residue 
From yesterday’s riot.
And on it he dreams
Of what it could’ve been. 

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Maria Manuel

12/8/2020

Maria Manuel is a senior pursuing a bachelor's in Wildlife and Fish Conservation Biology. She hopes to become a wildlife rehabilitator after college. When she is not studying, sleeping, or handling wild raptors, she enjoys writing poetry and playing DnD.