Betrothed By Poverty's Undoing
Children growing up with struggle

I wake to a world filled with smoke
I blend in with the night and seem to evade all eyes I pass of sight.
My clothes, I was gifted by a friend
Yet the odor of cigar and cigarette,
Cling to my new
And give the appearance of old,
Soiled.
My house is small,
Walls with holes,
I say house
Because this cannot be home.
And now I walk the streets and sit alone on the pier
Discouragement grips my mind,
Sadness turns to hate and violence corrupts my eyes
I visualize a life of crime but wish I could dream of happier times.
I watch a storm pass the bay
But
It does not leave me.
My siblings, rebels of distraught -
I linger alone but my mother’s wine,
I can smell on my breath,
I see why she drinks.
Her new boyfriend
His smoke fills the air and grabs on my arm
I can still feel his touch, even though he is not here.
I can still see how the holes in my walls appeared
Metaphorically, physically..
I wish neither
I was granted both
And more.
So, I suppose
I am never really alone.
I am haunted, by a life I did not choose
Cursed with reversed blessings.
School is tomorrow,
Mother will be asleep but if she wakes and I so much as breathe,
An alert of “I did not go to school on time”
There will be hell to bleed.
I decide to remain absent from education
Where is the value?
I do not know anybody with these values.
I walk to the store instead,
They’ll never notice the shirt I have on under my shirt
Who would buy it for me?
Who would care enough...
The threat of capture is the least menacing.
I saw my mom count five items at the dollar store yesterday
And paid with a coin bag filled with change
She counted at the house.
Yes, I muse, stealing is much better.
No, I do not need anything from my parents.
Not that I ever received,
And now
No longer do I need.
I got a necklace box for Christmas
With a pen in it.
I unwrapped a present for my birthday,
It was a tissue box.
“Sorry honey, no money this year,” she said.
How thrilling life is -
I live life on the edge
They call me reckless.
I have motivation
Fueled by emptiness.
Arrest me
Or I'll make you do it
Inevitably
This is poverty,
This is homelessness.
This is the ending,
To my life’s beginning.
- Perspective of a youth, victimized by poverty and homelessness
Image
https://unsplash.com/s/photos/child-abuse
About the author
angela descalzo
I kept a journal ever since I was a child, often writing poetry, trying to express expression in a way that could be percieved and acknowledged when it is most misunderstood. To show my truth and maybe relate to others with buried truths.
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