The Throwaways

Dreams come.

Weird, confused, jumbled memories
      Or false memories
      Or crystal fueled visions
      Or heroin inspired dreams.
              They all run together.

Crosses in my eyes
      But no Jesus is on them.

They are crucifying junkies and tweakers
      The stomped on and the discarded
         The throwaways.

They, no we, are the ones dying
      For societies sins.
Sins of neglect and abuse
      of ignorance and apathy
          of lost compassion and dying humanity.

We will be the ones to forgive
      Or not.
Our deaths do not grant forgiveness to all
      Just to those we choose.
You can not just accept us into your heart
      And be forgiven.
Your actions speak louder
      Than the empty words of your prayers.

-Casper