The Metal Man's Diary by Joel (15, Indonesia)

We speak the story of the abandoned: 

Every morning, we fill our cracked skin with metal paint 
Like the tins we hold. Clang clang for the pin-money you suddenly need. 
We’re they, not us - the beggars 
Of the streets. ​

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Dangling from our bowed heads we hold a sign. It says, 
We are not so lucky. But now, 
You hold onto your children firmer than ever. You slant a glare at us then your pockets. Clang clang. You walk away. Your 
Crumpled money - never ours to take. 

We’re the metal men. We walk to the tune of the traffic. Hum hum. Honk honk. Desperation breathes through us alongside your city fog. 
And our skin is soon taxed of all its moisture, but the paint reflects attention 
And anywho, boss man says it's good for business. 
We play the sport of survival. Metal: 
We learn from the signal mirror. The sun shines at your face and you stare. 
So, SOS. Clang clang. 

Our limbs bolted to the ground like the burden we are, we sink to the side. No need to try. We won’t last. 
We’ll be extinct not for the lack of trying. Society has naturally 
Selected. We’re off those charts. Clang clang. 
We’ll wave goodbye.

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