Life Of Poverty Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Life of poverty, lived in abject hopelessness, stands starkly,
proud of it's existence on earth.

Without it there could be no upper or middle class, poverty
does it's job well by building the foundation for these two.

Pangs of hunger, curdling stomachs of little children as they
whimper helplessly in the night.
Can no one hear their tiny voices?

In the light of day, playing outdoors, imagining sticks and
rocks are wonderful toys to play with.

Climbing trees, running, jumping, listening to the breeze as
they run alongside shadows in the noonday sun.

Laughing, smiling, having fun and no one looks closer as the
day wears on - poverty's silence continues without anyone the
wiser.

Until that is, it is too late and the children have become
the gang members we fear so much.

Little children, trusting, responsive, communicative, until
the hopelessness becomes too much for even fun to keep it
at bay.

Life entangled in the web we weave for our young ones is in
later years, thrown over our heads.

Society cannot prevent it's demise, children become our
undoing, simply because we are not there for them.

When talking we never looked them in the eye, showing a
negligent disrespect for their worth and self-esteem.

As they talked we allowed our minds to wander, subsequently
not listening to a word they said.

Tears falling achingly down their faces and we were too busy
to stop a minute and give them a hug or any reassurance.

Why did our children make a wrong turn and rebel against us?