Justice for the Poor

I am enclosed by walls of a crude justice.

Coarse walls, crooked and cautious.

Here I live, but I do not call it home.

A greater length, the stars roam

Compared to my little place and this place. 

Sprawled across time is my debt that I did create.

Day-in and day-out I chip away,

And in response this place chips again 

At my mind. Melting a little everyday.

My spirit splinters and my will sways.

They see my poor spirit, and only offer to take away.

this place hammers a chisel Into my head,

And now marred and bled

They claim that I have been sculpted into an “upstanding citizen!”

Despite the blood and scars all over my face.

But I continue to pay my debt in cold embrace

With my gaze firmly set upon my little place.