Sometimes.

At times it pains me to say that I'm an American born and raised.

I've lived this life of comfort, with a mother who loves and friends to shelter from these tears and this rain,

I've lived with my cheeks in a high chair.

Elevated by status above others of less fortune by a few simple lines known as division by culture, race, and the existence of the United States.

I've lived in a place where money is power. Electricity and influence as well as the right to a shower, of companionship and warmth and the security of a home,

Whereas in these third-world lands of misfortune children are dying by the thousands as their shot in their domes.

Domes empty of the abundance of knowledge and the wealth of education rejected by these, my fellow ignorant children due to their belief of "what they will need." to survive.

When in reality, our underlying subconscious acknowledges the folly of these "needs," knowing the mentally challenged impulse-type-sales of, these weeds are retarding these seeds of knowledge for which every day, millions of children desperately plead.

We weigh campuses such as, BC, CP, where a third-world away these thirteen year old boys are wondering: "Do I feed my brothers and sisters, or simply satisfy me?"

Juggling between a family bonded from what we call hood-rats, a group of seventeen a meal that in our own spoiled and selfish mentality wouldn't be considered fit for a teen.

We dance to these beats, expressing our "love for the rhythm," and our musical needs,

Where they dance to the "clak-clak-clak" of AK's blowing holes near their feet.

Upon the time of my death, as I take my last breath in this bed, I simply want to question: "was this life legitimately led? If I could re-wind time would I trade my life for yours to become a savior instead?"

And sadly, I answer myself.

No.

I am undeserving.