this one goes out to mr.wexford. (R.I.P)
every morning at 5:00am,
while others are sleeping his starts again.
a weary body, he counts to ten,
no time for breakfast,
no time for friends.
his hands are dirty,
and chaffed of skin,
his blood stained workday
will now begin.
he rides his bike to make ends meet,
the shoes he's wearing show through to his feet.
he must endure eleven hours,
running on empty, with only hatred powers.
hurting so much,
he feels battered and beaten.
reality looses its touch,
he still hasn't eaten.
pushing so hard to just stay alive,
knowing not that his body has died.
worked to death, withholding the tears in his eyes,
nothing left, another orphan dies.
lets hope the next life shines more brighter, as you had to be the fighter.
"never a nice day."
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