The life of an African child

Each day I wake up feeling weak.
I feel as though the world moves without me.
My self worth non-existent.
Suicide my last option.
My depression smiling at me.
My only escape found in drugs and alcohol.
I wake up at 06:00 am.
Some earlier than I do.
School, my prison.
A piece of paper shows my worth.
My cries left unheard.
My mental state damaged.
A piece of paper brands me.
Whether I am useful to my family or not.
The punishment for failing unspeakable.
My mental state is damaged.
A piece of paper brands me.
No one knows of our pain.
No one hears our cries.
We are taught from a young age to refrain from any emotions.
Our school work comes first.
School, our prison.
Why won't anyone hear our cries?
Why won't anybody believe we are not perfect?
Why won't anybody love us?
A piece of paper brands us.
School, our prison.
Are our children going to face the same pain?
Are we going to make our children suffer the same pain.
Depression our gatekeeper.
Please, may someone hear our pain.
Please, may someone show us love.
Can someone tell us that they are proud of us as we are.
May someone break down the walls to our prison.
A prison we were forced into.
May someone hear our pain.
Because I believe that we do not have much time left.
May someone please change the minds of our children.
Because if we do nothing, there would be no generation to change our future.
There would be nobody to hold our future.
Because we will all be 6 feet under.
Our pain the cause of our death.
And our misery the resting place.
Zulu.