I wrote this poem, after getting so upset with all the news about unwanted migrants, and 'benefit scroungers'.

Please don’t judge me

Please don’t judge me, categorise me

Not until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes.

Not until you’ve lived the pain, the strain,

The intolerable daily grind of

Coping with disease, depression, hardship,

War, abuse, inaction,

Then you might find understanding,

Comprehension,

Why I live as you choose not to,

Using food banks, handouts, benefits,

We’re not scroungers!

We’re the strugglers, invalids, non-copers,

In a world of bankers, models,

Old aged pensioners,

Cursing our existence.

We’re the nameless, faceless thousands,

Coming to your shores in these vessels,

Barely able to float, too crowded,

Annoying tourists

Who’ve paid good money,

To enjoy the sunshine,

But we spoil it,

We abuse your sense of ‘niceness’,

How dare we flee from worn-torn countries?

Diseased and dirty tented grottos.

But think for a moment...

If it were your family,

Your wife, son, daughter,

Facing hardship,

Wouldn’t you go to any lengths

To try and secure a decent future?

Wouldn’t you risk uncertainty?

Trust in others kindness, generosity?

I hope that if you walked a mile in my shoes,

You would find a hand of friendship,

Reaching out and offering something,

Anything’s better than what we’re facing.

I can’t bear the future for you,

Without others reaching inwards,

Discovering the milk of human kindness

Flowing through their hardened arteries,

Seeing you as someone, SOMEONE,

Not a burden, simply burdened,

And they finally see the light

And walk that mile

For you, with you.

This is my prayer for the bitter heart.