Imaginary Immigrants

my feeling towards the borders of this nation

 

Are the people crowding in on us real,

Or just in our heads,

Do we feel the rub of their elbows,

As they float in on rafts, and beliefs.

Can you hear the volatile language,

Used to describe their homeland,

Old and new,

Does the blood and sweat not run,

Through sewers, now of ghettos.

We are robbed of space and decency,

Are the people who take and excrete dissatisfaction really there,

Do they not try to get us down by stomping on our feet,

Well they are gone if you choose.

No guns, clubs, or fists will do,

You must use intelligence and bugspray;

Gone are the workspaces of the true and honest,

What lies instead are the ashes.

Liquor is the devil’s fire while paper is the rain,

Without thinking, and paper to express our rights,

They will move in and budge us.

I raise the pencil to the paper and write,

I use my knowledge and they are gone,

I will build my way to college and they stay out,

Cursing the chance they had, and lost.