Immune

IMMUNE I saw a crack-head lying in a ditch, resting peacefully upon the soft mud, scratching at what he thought was an itch. It was a creeping and nasty bug! A group of church folks pass by, and looked upon him as an "it." They too were far from God’s love. It went through my mind to ask the question, why, how, can a man accept to be so low, to feel no guilt, or desire to cry, no purpose to live, or no proof to show? Immune! immune to these things you see, had became a repetitious part of time, they became a way, or a part to be -- they became his "state of mind." A cowboy who sees his father chewing; he, too, chews and grows to accept it . A black boy, who sees his father drinking, out of low self-esteem; he, too, begins to drink it. America has cheated, lied, and dealt a crooked hand; now, Americans have grown to love it. We became immune to what is constant in our lives. I smelled a rose, it was so soft to me , I picked it up and held it in my hand. I wasn’t immune to its' beauty, and so, I put it close to me, desiring it to become a part of me, but it slowly died - it wasn’t immune to me.