• We are the fighters
    We are the lost,
    The found,
    And the forgotten.

    We are the Southerners,
    The ones who sing,
    Who dance,
    Who ate and cooked jolly meals
    Who work.
    Well at least we used to be.

    Now we are,
    The busy city workers,
    The fast food goers,
    The bustle around trying to get things done,
    The ones who never relax.

    Is this what we are?
    A southern New York?
    Where are all the home cooked meals?
    All of the singing and dancing?
    The ones who relaxed at the end of the day.

    I try and try again to make this poem into who WE are,
    But I can’t,
    Because we are no longer us.
    I can’t write a poem of who we are when we don’t know!

    I leave you to ponder this,
    Who are we?
    Who is the South?
    Who are the Georgians?