No new clothes,
no new shoes.
The rest of my family gets new things,
why don't I?
I'm not so important.
Some people ignore me,
they don't care,
why should they?
I'm not so important.
Some people look at me differently
because of the scars on my skin and in my soul.
Why do they even care or stare?
What makes me so important?
I entertain peoples morbid side,
another addition to the circus of broken people.
A so called 'freak show' of humanity.
Other than this hellish things called life,
I have no purpose.
I really, truly am
not so important.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem