Young Writers Society

This poem is in no traditional style, and is not supposed to flow a certain way. The important thing to me in this poem, however, isn't the structure, but the point I'm trying to get across.

Atop a pile of rubbish sat a young boy, desperately trying to wake his mother from a slumber she would never rise from. He held her in his arms, rocking her as she had done with him so many times.
An old man sat by the wals of a crumbling building, watching children rushing back and forth, trying to scrape up what might be considered as dinner. Some might find a squirrel, a mouse even, others would find nothing.
I stopped to watch a little boy digging through a heap of trash, hoping to find a tin can he could sell for a few cents.
A man in a fancy suit had promised to help them, he said he would send people to 'clean up' the city. That man lied. He lied to impress the other men in fancy suits. He looked t this place and saw empty streets, not people. To him the only 'people' were people who could afford to buy 500$ cigars that came in mahogony boxes. Didn't matter if they smoked or not, the point was they could buy them and keep them on display.
Who can be bothered by starving infants when there's a derby to attend?
Not him, not his freinds.
What is a dead child...what is a dead mother, or brother, or father? It's thier own fault they died, they should have been born in another country, at another time. It's no one's problem...no ones, but thier own.