Our children

Our children rebel. Not because of the drugs they use, but because of the drugs we give them.

Our children hide. Not as part of a game, but from fear of being beaten.

Our children seek. Not out of curiosity, but as the remedy for a life without hope.

Our children go hungry. Not because they are poor, but because we are poor.

Our children remember. Not to share their story, but to keep your secret.

Our children are sick. Not just with Chickenpox, but with Ebola, HIV and Malaria.

Our children hate. Not because they care, but because we showed them to not care.

Our children are our future. Not because we trust them, but because we plan on blaming them for our past.

Our children don’t dream of becoming astronauts. Not because it’s a dangerous profession, but because we taught them to look down instead of up.

Our children won’t put a golden toad in their pocket. Not because they are scared of it, but because we’ve made the toad extinct.

Our children lay on cold, hard floors. Not to rest, but to cover their heads from bullets whizzing through their classrooms.

Our children disappear. Not to start families of their own, but to become pawns, playthings and prostitutes.

Our children cross borders. Not by their own will, but because we told them to broaden their horizons.

Our children are dirty. Not from playing in the park, but from living on the street.

Our children can’t hear. Not because they are ignoring us, but because they lost their hearing after an explosion.

Our children run across the beach. Not to play, but to get away from the bombs we drop from the sky.

Our children bleed. Not from a scrape, but from a gunshot wound.

Our children are silenced. Not because they are loud, but because we’ve deemed their voice as unimportant.

Our children. We have failed them.


Published by Mari

I was born with a widow's peak and a thick accent. I majored in English as a second language. I work (marianeladearmas.com) and travel (alittlecubangoesalongway.com) and sometimes do both.

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