It's 6.30 am in Pomona and the street walkers are still out. One in tight leather skirt. Another in bright pink assemble. One woman, maybe not street walkers, sat at the bus stop in her nightgown with empty gaze.
Who will love them? Who will love the unloved? The ones huddled beneath all their belongings, their weak roots desperately grasping for some anchor even when knowing how easy they can be yanked once again.
Who will love those who only have their body to sell? It is not an easy way to make a living, but it will have to do. And even when you just had enough, you have to keep pushing through. There ain't no rest for the wicked.
Who will love the person who was screaming her head off at the bus stop? So erratic and so angry as if the world had taken everything good she ever has. Maybe the world did. Sometimes even God can be a dick.
It's a cold morning in Pomona. The sun shines gently atop the gold medallion tree, making their yellow flowers look even more bright and beautiful. I have my job, my lunch, a place to go home to. Life is good.
In another world a mere click away a war is raging between the vaccinated and unvaccinated, between progress and tradition. A constant race on the tiny screen to be the goodest boy/girl of all. Mining for likes, panning for fame, digging for followers.
Yet for the unloved none of this matter. None of the comfort I have is theirs. None of the debate, the race to glory, the keyboard war affect them. None of these will help them. They are invisible.
Good morning loved ones. I see you and I see your pain. I feel your struggle and I taste your bitter tears. I apologize for the hurt the world put you through. I love you then. I love you now.
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