Star-crossed

I was born to breath the air of inequity,
to listen to the sound of wrong,
to wear the badge of poverty,
to be a notch lower than all,
to speak "i'd rather.." than "i can",
to never want to be heared at all,
 to sit inside the four walled room,
to feel the warmth of the hot water
that flows down on my cheeks,
to remind me of the place where
im best suited ;
the crater of an angry volcano,
the gates of hell,
that Ive learned to embrace
without asking "whys"
like the smoke that keeps bouncing
on the dried leaves at night
the gears of my thinking were broken
in search for a bullet proof place
where each bullet of life
cant pierce my wounded heart again.