The Fates we are all Assigned

A stranger. An outsider. Someone who doesn’t fit in, Who isn’t wanted, Who doesn’t conform, Who doesn’t meet the...

· 2 min read >

A stranger. An outsider.

Someone who doesn’t fit in,

Who isn’t wanted,

Who doesn’t conform,

Who doesn’t meet the social norm.

________________________________________________                                                      A girl walking down the street,

Getting whistled by those she meets.

Walking fast, she doesn’t look back,

As the gates of hell frighten her.

She runs away from them,

Afraid she might crack.

________________________________________________                                                          A muslim girl, walking down the street,

Being judged by those she meets,

Walking fast, she doesn’t look back,

As the gates of freedom close,

She runs away from them,

Afraid they might attack.

________________________________________________                                                            A homeless man begs on the street,

Being assumed of something by those he meets.

Sitting there, with his sign showing grief,

As the gates of doom swallow him.

He gives in finally, in the end,

Knowing that this moment might be brief.

________________________________________________                                                       An antisocial girl at school,

Being judged by those who rule.

Walking to class, she grabs her pack,

As the gates of depression close.

She sits in a chair, most likely aware,

Knowing that this time she might be able to get them back.


Two popular girls, stand above all,

One short and the other tall.

They stand out above the rest, looking their best,

As the insecurity kills their true identities.

They talk and chatter, about boys and bitter batter,

As they hide, their identities, choosing not to let it rest.


A man in a wheelchair, gets wheeled around,

Completely paralyzed from the neck down.

He cannot move, but he remembers,

And watches as those walk around him, unseeing.

He wheels on, never knowing to walk again,

As his expression turns to red hot embers.


An innocent sits on death row,

Watched by others like a crow.

He knows he is innocent, but it doesn’t matter,

As long as those with vengeful eyes watch him die.

As the noose closes around his neck,

His last words upon his tongue.

He closes his eyes,

Praying that maybe maybe he might not die.


A man who murdered three,

Sit’s in a chair, no longer free.

An animal he is, correct?

No rights, only wrongs, no human, only hate.

As the verdict of “guilty” is said aloud,

As the man in the chair hears the words without a sound.

He wants to be, even though it cannot be,

As he walks toward the chair, by those who do not care.


A black little boy, sits in a tree,

Completely and utterly totally free.

A rifle aimed at the boy’s back,

But the boy had nothing except a pair of binoculars.

A shot is heard, and he falls to the ground,

Never again, to make a sound.

The white police man sits there stunned,

But this was a black boy, so the case is won.


A refugee attempts to come in,

But cannot because of where he has been.

His family are gone, there is no one left,

Except a heaven that will no longer accept.

The refugee, starving and tired,

Sit’s upon the cold ground.

He shivers and suffers,

There is nothing left, but darkness and only theft.


A white man walking down a street,

Thinking he is lucky, by those he meets.

But he is poor, and might lose his house,

So he puts on a mask to hide his grief.

A homeless man asks for change,

So the man gives him some.

He walks on in a daze.


The rain pours on, it likes to pour,

Creating a thunder, like a roar.

It wants to go to sleep,

But is lost in it’s overwhelming anger,

Because there are those who still need it to weep.


We are all strangers, of a kind,

We all do not know each other’s mind.

There are the stereotypes that cloud our spirits,

As judgments reap our souls by sorrow.

We all run and we all hide,

From the truth that is inside,

That we all navigate through life blind,

Only forgetting that we need,

To refuse to accept the fates we’re all assigned.

Written by Elisabeth Morrison
I am a student at Ventura College, hoping to transfer to a college or university and major in Anthropology. I spend my time, writing fictional stories for my benefit and for pure fun with the imagination. Profile


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