Poem to Poverty

Our days are long,
the sun burns our skin to cinnamon brown,
the wind scallops our lips,
our feet are masses of scarred flesh.

We are marked forever,
with the letter that defines us unequal
by the circumstances that cause us to be
hated by some and pitied by others.

Ignorance soils our houses
it piles in the corners of our small rooms,
gathers in our plates and cups
powders our dishes with its acrid dust.

With our sweat we struggle through life
and drink the tears that come with everyday.
We write with our blood our stories
on the cement tombstone of our graves.

Our voices are soft and shallow,
but our emotions as deep as oceans.
With our hands, calloused and raw
we pave our way to survival on this earth.

Witness as we with our efforts write
our laments, as we with our hands write
the poem to poverty that we so
strongly have come to hate.

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