Shoes

Assigned in 8th grade, we were instructed to write a poem that a refugee, in our prejudice perspective, would likely relate to and consume.

Shackles around my ankles, 

But nothing is there. 

Scars and cuts across

a face once fair. 

My heart pumps cold

blood throughout my body. 

Whips cut my skin, 

but nobody can hear me

Scream as loud as a tiger roars. 

Glass cuts deep and opens sores. 

That nobody but me can see. 

My clothes are ragged, 

Shoes are torn. 

Defeat and sorrow soak 

the robes that are worn.

You could not comprehend, 

The messages they send, 

That I no longer hide from, 

Though to weak to defend, 

My family, My companions, 

Myself, nor friends. 

We walk away 

with nothing to lose

because we already lost everything, 

right down to our shoes. 

 

Reviews

[NotAboutMe]

They say not to judge another person until you walk a mile in their shoes. I guess before judging a refugee, one should try walking through a mile of snow (or over a scorched desert) without shoes.
Nice work.