The Proletarian Poem by John Chizoba Vincent

THE PROLETARIAN
The ordinary people we are
The common people of the abandoned street
Homeless not Hopeless in our quest
Looking up to the Forest Lords
We are kicked left and right by them
Helpless not voiceless
We are the dregs of the Society
Seen in every rejected areas in the land
Faceless and clueless of who we really are
The Hoi-polloi lost In pains of the leaders
Our kinds are not better in anything involving the society yet they used us as tout to kill ourselves
The land detest and chase us here and there
Hope we speak each day yet no hope seen
Among our kind In Their daily agenda
We are treated and killed like the funeral ram
But we stitch our heart with smiles
Our laughter clapping in the dawn of their ears
Our stomach may speak harshly to us but
We perservere speaking kindly and warmly
Their eyes despises our existence
Their mouths speak wrath against us
Who shall speak for us- - the voiceless?
Where shall the messaih come from Israel or jerusalem?
Mighty men had fallen in Jerico and Gomorahh
Great gladiators had be slaughtered in Rome and Greece but we look close to the dawn in the west
Clothing our already made cupped desires in a beam smiles.
Though our Lives a Bottled Oil in a freezer
Though our drive a playing gesture in our hands
We believe, we dream, we shall be seen among
Men not fallen in The ditch of limited trend but
We tread on the surviving route days to come.