This poem is dedicated to the people who have told me their stories over
the past few days or so, and it is directed at all those who have hurt
or used people like them out of neglect, carelessness, or cruelty.

All the wealth in the world and you couldn't afford?
A little thing they call "love" or I call "care",
Love means a knife in the back
After all, does it not?
We all have our price and I know mine,
The one cost you can never afford
For the rest--
A little thing called "respect"
Wherever we placed it ... misplaced it.
It's a pity I found my freedom, no empty
Promises could hold me in now,
Why do I do what I do anymore?
The things I heard today ...
Maybe "love" is too much to demand,
But I don't worship false idols
Who don't understand that
The people around them are people
As well, and does it matter if
They have "reaped what they sowed"?
I'm a child who would not understand,
I can hear it already, to Hell
If it matters!
No one deserves to be slighted
Like this.
A little thing called "respect"
For the stories that you are still
Ignorant of--
How much must I pay
For their sakes,
Should we hold an auction ...?
It makes me bitter to see as so often
I do that I have the best of
The people I know, even you.
But I'm cursed to feel the pain
Of those you have wounded!
Given a mop and a pail
To clean up all of your dirt.
Throw me out in the cold, might
As well, why don't you?
The kind of care you offer would
Be better afforded by mail order.
The things I learned today ...
I'm glad I didn't make their mistakes.
Though I'm far more glad I didn't
Make yours:
What's your currency worth
When no one will buy it ...?

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Ios, in the year 86 MA.