poverty

poverty

sometimes the worlds dirt is the only place we can call home

where our skin is better brittle than to have bruises.

abuse is everywhere. let me shine a light on the oppressors

 that oppress and the detested that reek of holy must.

drinking from the fountain of desert we found lying like a corpse on an abandoned town.

this is home. we are home. living on streets bloody with

 the fight of our people. trickled with coins our desperate fingers grab at to pocket.