The emaciated dogs that live off the kindness and scraps thrown to them by passers by don't care one way or the other if I write this.
And that children growing up on a dirt road covered in fleas couldn't read it if they tried.
Their mothers would be ashamed to read it.
The fathers that are left would grow angry with pride and remembrances of when that word meant anything.
Upon reading this the well fed people in the capital won't suddenly realize the problem of poverty in their country that has converted a once proud people who opposed a white man on a horse into shadows of what human beings should be.
They already know.
But they do nothing, because to look upon these shadow people, they would realize that they are shadows too. Well fed shadows, growing fat on what they can steal from the people and how well they whore out the land.
Not shadows like the potbelly child drawing a cup of water to drink from the roadside ditch like he does every day. Except to look a little farther up stream one would realize that, maybe unlike every other day, a dog has just let flow a stream of liquid shit into the water that this child is drinking.
Not shadows like this child who people pretend/try not to/ refuse to see, but shadows in that a piece of their soul has shriveled with every bribe, with every corrupt land deal, with every person that has died while they grow fat.

I don't write for them, they couldn't read this, it wouldn't make sense.
I write for me, to free the piece of my soul that has been weighted down by the things I've seen and the times I've almost wept.