4 women seek their ID thru comparison, denial (written from their soc wkr's perspective.) |
Rehab They're not like me They have lost it all Jobs, homes, their family Still they sit in circles And gang up on me Get in my face to make me see They are just like me But I'm not like them I still have my kids, at my mother's house A home to go home to if she's still paying my mortgage A life, a family, a job, if they will still have me I don't even get drunk, Well, I don't drive when I'm drunk At least not with the kids in the car And still, I look at these sorry souls And refuse to be one of them Because anyone can clearly see They are not like me. ************************************************************* The Group Home on Cherry Street I watch them carefully They are not like me But here we are, together We share one sad story Orphaned, discarded, abused Different reasons for the same sad fact We all have no where else to lay our heads, No family. That's where the similarity ends. Listen to my story and you will see These people are not at all like me We are all here together, but these girls are train wrecks They are hyper, depressed, traumatically stressed One girl was raped, another a delinquent A runaway I think. We have a basketcase, a drama queen An ex-junkie. At thirteen? One girl's mom is in rehab, and not for the first time. And me, what's my crime? No family. My mother didn't plan for her early demise. And didn't bother to inform the sperm donor That she gave birth to his daughter, His identity, and with it, his family Remains a mystery she took to her grave So, you see what I mean when I say These people are not like me But despite that fact, They look no different, on the outside No one cares to see that I'm unique Then again, maybe we are alike Because, to everyone we meet, We will always be nothing But those poor kids From the group home On Cherry Street *********************************************************** Bars and Lost Babies I sit in a crowded cell With six women I've never met before We talk about our kids, Abusive men, All we've lost We compare our social workers And which guards will let us call home Alone, we sort each woman, we judge, condemn, Junkies, theives, abusers, drunks, we're never like them Together, we fret about denied visits, court dates We sit powerless watching life pass us by And distract ourselves with puzzle books Worn out paperbacks, showing off pictures Of our kids growing up without us. Back when I was young A year ago I judged my mother For having three children With three different men None of whom stuck around And I vowed I would never be like her Now I have four kids with different daddies Just like my siblings and me I watch powerless as the cycle starts again Tears in my eyes, pictures in hand On the eve of the court hearing That will end my rights of maternity. A wisdom finally settles inside me I realize I am my worst enemy, My own judge and jury, my own iron bars Punishing me always for the mistakes I've made, For not trying hard enough for my babies I've learned so much lately, I can finally see My mom, these women, those junkies They are exactly like me ****************************************************8 Perspective They are just like me They are mothers, wives, children Some are even dreamers like me And I try to feel what they feel Imagine missing my kids, Losing my home, Being hit by someone I love I've missed my kids, for a week or so I've moved a few times, Lost a few loved ones, Wished a few would get sober Made a few choices and lived to regret them Struggled with bills, disappointed someone I love Like them, I'm not without flaws I've learned to respect them for being human Support them, trust them, fear for them Yearned to believe they could change Only to watch them quit trying, fail, eat their words That they were not like the others, would not lose their kids When we took them away, I also felt betrayed, mislead Why keep fighting for them, when they stop fighting for themselves? I questioned while driving in my car... that still runs Felt sorry for them as I pick up the kids... I still have, I dreamt of them sometimes, in my warm bed, Next to the husband...Who has never beat me, In our own home ... which we can still afford. Back when I was young, and naive At least a week ago, A wisdom came over me as well As much as I want to feel their pain, empathize, understand, To search for something in common, something we share Next to what they have endured, my worries do not compare. I am not like them, you see But I struggle to bridge The widening gap between them and me So I can still look them in the eyes And say, I have not been there But I will be here, and I will try To listen without judgment or condemnation Without fear or conceit To search inside for a common thread For there are only so many emotions We have all experienced them, or will At one time or another I've found my answer at last: Human emotion is the open door Through which we all can pass We are only human, no less, no more And to help them preserve their dignity..... Is still worth fighting for |