Poem

Underneath We're All The Same

He prayed -- it wasn't my religion.
He ate -- it wasn't what I ate.
He spoke -- it wasn't my language.
He dressed -- it wasn't what I wore.
He took my hand -- it wasn't the color of mine.
But when he laughed -- it was
How I laughed, and when he cried --
It was how I cried.

by, Amy Maddox, age 16