From all corners
Strong arms throw problems
Like they are in some form of javelin match
Into the dumpster that I am
Expecting me to wash them clean
And return their dirts in gold forms
Funny, how they bury my dreams
In the trashes of their problems
So much so, hands of God fail to touch any
In their quest for a little liberation
What crimes did my soul commit
In the life preceding this
That I was born a trashcan of all things?
What minds do these hands hold
To throw trashes without a thought to my proper standing?
Why must a trashcan like me come with a fragile heart?
Of what use will I be if I continiously shrink from blows of rugged problemed stones?
Some claim I am a rare stone in gravels
But I am deep within a muddy gravel
Receiving all that is dirty
Seeing not the sun let alone smile with it
Many are the hurdles of this earth
I guess a trashcan sees most


Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2015

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