How would you feel if your siblings where exported whilst the government was pumping your stomach dry?
Merry Christmas to you.
You send me of to psychiatric hospitals to examine my head, yet you fail to find the obvious.
Freedom is found in a heating vent, not in a bully infested institution.
When the fists fly on the streets I have a chance of survival.
But here in these four walls it is either beat or be beaten, no chance of escape.
Do you think you could have given us a chance to say good bye.
Would one final fleeting glimpse have been a suitable parting gesture?
No I am property of the state, I don’t have a choice. I don’t have parents to fight for me either.
So I lie in detox or rehab or wherever I am, forced to fight through the haze of glue to summons a memory.
A memory of my brother and sister before they where snatched from me.
So Merry Christmas to you, I hope your suffering is less than mine.
And don’t ask me again why I prefer the streets.
Because I have seen what the state can do.
And I don’t like it.