Una Mirada Alrededor

I was born on any given day, a child starts to
cry, not knowing that growing up he will have to
earn respect. Speaking frankly, being normal not weird, paying
high prices, having to work to avoid
unemployment. Spending many hours, having few
free moments, toughening up his sensitive fiber to not become
invisible. Being polite in a life where the calmest
moment is mealtime.

It doesn't matter the good or the month, only if he starts to cry
for the crime of being born and the sin of breathing. Everything is
effort in life, his feelings, when he has
reason, will make him cry inside. Do you remember when
we didn't balance on the tightrope, and we did
things for the pleasure of doing them? Without knowing the truth
of life, there are no certainties, only loneliness and something
solid is bark.

Sometimes, if I think about it, it seems to me that the future is like
becoming gray turning dark. Sometimes there are
colors, the best ones don't fade, but some
peel off, in the end, they are just ink. In the end,
what remains? A thousand children, a million
growing up in a hostile environment, watching television
not knowing they will receive what they will give for the
crime of learning to understand and despise.

They keep our effort, take away our
hobbies, we dull ourselves with television, with the
phone. They keep our time, dispose of it as
they please. They treat us like trash, we live in the moment.
They throw us a bone, a salary, put a muzzle on us;
we bark and go to social security. We heal
waiting, we do it their way, when we
serve, we end up on the road.

It seems that sports work as an anesthetic, and that
historical memory suffers from amnesia. I don't want to take more drugs as an antidote to
frustration, as if it were a painkiller. Conditioned
by money, by the state I live in
hopeless. How can I buy something if my contract is not
endorsed, if it seems that every time I vote I choose a
born liar.

I wake up with a sore body, look at the alarm clock;
it's cold, the sun hasn't come out yet. I get dressed, go out
to the street, the dew soaks my car. I light a
cigarette as the night fades away. I go to work one
more day to pay bills, and count the days left of my garbage contract. Barely sleeping, to
have some life that the poorly paid overtime
forbids me.

Keeping the aspirations of the masses in check is the
ideal; a family, a car, a house, a job, a
McDonald's, beach vacations. I try, but
I feel like a guinea pig. Shitty problems,
damn shitty system. I put my periods, my commas,
that's my problem. If I do it, I know I'll be welcomed
to a world without money, of unemployment and fear of
being fired.