You see this house

Its blue bright brick walls

Standing tall

Its windows, all nice and dim—

Just the way

I like it.

I built it all by myself.

One day

I woke up—

Decrepit,

My bed, a pavement

On the street.

I cried to anyone

Who would listen,

“Am I not human too?”

Then I remembered—

Before houses became artificial,

My ancestors put their hands to work—

Started with clay for huts,

Moved to sticks and woods,

Then back to sand, now as bricks.

I got up,

Walked and walked and walked,

Only stopping for sips of water,

From anyone who would hear my pleas.

Then I came across the most beautiful land—

Empty and waiting.

And I built and I built,

Blood and sweat dripping

Down my person,

Scorching heat and freezing cold—

Couldn’t stop me.

Aching body, and a fallen finger,

Would not stop me.

Until this land became a room,

This room became my house—

Standing tall and proud,

Ready to welcome

One who might need a home too.

Did not need a bed,

So I slept on its floor—

The most comfort I ever found.

Suddenly, my makeshift door

Is kicked down.

I could not afford metal,

Otherwise I would shut the world away,

Like it did to me.

A white pale man is facing me,

As I lay on the ground.

My eyes blinking at his audacity

To enter my home.

“This land is mine,

Get out, before I make you.”

I replied,

Knowing this was coming—

“Did you create this land?”

His silence, my answer.

“Don’t you know this house of mine

is handmade,

and only death will take me away.”

“I am here to stay.

So call all your people.

Every person that takes

a land that does not belong to them

and call it theirs—

tell them:

there’s nothing that will make me leave.

It’s my carcass you’ll be dragging away,

as I pray you rot in hell.”