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Betrothed By Poverty's Undoing

by angela descalzo 13 days ago in childrens poetry
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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

childrens poetry

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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