For A Friend

Do you want the life I live? Do you think it'd be any better in someone else's shoes?

Would you rather be backstabbed numerous times by people you thought you could trust? Never being invited to things because no one thought to ask if you'd like to come, until you were on the verge of death? Being denied questioningly by your love, over and over again? Do you want my shoes?

Would you rather be in a field working day in day out with no pay? Your family is gone and dead, you have no friends- your friends are dead. Dying. Did they say to stop working? CRACK. See what I get for talking? For living? Being denied access to your love- because they don't want any babies around here. Too many to begin with. CRACK. Get back to work. Do you want my shoes?

Would you rather be on a bed every day with someone you thought you could trust over you, hurting you? The teddy bear the only thing to hold on to childhood. The drugs coming and going, the people coming and going, over top of you- coming, then going. There is no solitude, there is no peace, just the constant noise of the bed jerking, the money unrolling, the zipper's up and down. Do you want to suck on something that tastes like shit every day with no choice? Do you want my shoes?

Would you rather come home to empty bottles, a lifeless body that still breathes? One that never tells you 'hello' but only can muffle a 'get me another'. And that's only on your birthday. Would you rather be only known to counselors, because you come there so often trying to explain how the bruise was from hitting a door? Do you want my shoes?

Would you rather be afraid to come home because you heard two loud pops near your house the night before? Scraping by like rats, entertaining yourself with matches and rolled up paper, and the big man with a club will bust in any moment to beat you down and throw you away like a piece of trash. Do you want my shoes?

Would you rather walk outside, always having a high chance of hot metal piercing through you? Men on horseback, lit with vengeance, coming by every night to take more away with yellow and red. A hint of orange. But more red. Yelling at you, telling you, you should die for nothing you did and watching them cut off fingers of people because that's just how it works. It's an example to be made of. And if you move, there's the hot metal again. Do you want my shoes?

Would you rather eat what you can find in the forest, drink muddled water, and risk it all by living next to monkeys? Would you rather be so ill you couldn't walk, and when you beg to the rich people they just say 'nothing we can do' when they could? When they could do so much more if they just wanted to? Would you rather watch your six year old son dying outside next to a vulture, waiting for him? Do you want my shoes?

Would you rather be rich and famous? People gawking at you all the time. You couldn't go outside without a camera shoved into your face. Without a person yelling at you. No peace. No solitude. You make a mistake, and everyone knows about it. You can't even tell your parents what you've done wrong, it makes the papers before you could even dial the first number. It's too dangerous to drive, and your kids are meant to be superstars- even if you don't want them to. You want them to do what they want, not follow your footsteps. And love doesn't exist here, just a quickie marriage for publicity. Do you want my shoes?

Now I ask, do you want the life I live? Do you think it'd be any better in someone else's shoes?