We are missing all the treasures

We walk among the wounded ones, each and every day:
Yes, countless are the broken ones: we pass along the way
Too quick we are with judgments but not quick enough to see
That those we have been labeling are victims of brutality.

Some of those we have written off with medical terminology
Are the angels who would help us out if we were struggling.
We stick inside our stereotypes that society says we should
But never find the treasures that the non-conformist would.

Think about those  people we're around and those we push away
What is it about the marginalized that we keep them out of our day?
Do we think we're so noble because we're mingling with "the great"?
Where can there be any greatness if we're coming to see too late?