My country, 'Tis of thee.

My hands cannot type fast enough to keep up to the pulsing of my heart. I am energized by the wrongs in this world. We demand to be held to a higher standard of living and yet turn up our noses at the fellow down the street. He wishes he could demand that same standard and get away with it. Yet we lock him in cages, we want him off our streets. We hand him handcuffs instead of a home. We give him a snarl, not a second chance. 

He is everything we are except lucky. 

He was dealt a poor hand and instead of letting him redraw, we make him fold. Who are you to take something away from him that you too were once so earnestly seeking? Did you not long for a chance, for a reason to dream, for an opportunity to arise? While he might have to wait on a street corner instead of a warm house as you had, he still has hope. His dreams as a child were the same as yours. His faith has been dimmed by nights lived on that corner, but it will not fade away. How dare you, a stranger, attempt to blow it out. It will never be your place in the world to take someone else's hope, no matter how little they have left.