Being Poor

Since I'm up for money,
I have less time to play and see my friends,
It is harder for me to make my voice heard
Or to make decisions over my own life .

My ideas are often treated with less respect,
My auntie, always talks to me with a bick-bickering voice,
Rages are my clothes, no Vaseline to hide my cracked skin,
Children's at school would gather around me , booing and laughing at me ,
It because of my old school shoes.
Sometimes l used to seat on my auntie's verandah marvel to other children in the streets,

I go in the street bugging,
Imagine kneeling down for just a piece of bread,
People they just pass me by as l loose hope in my life,
I go one place to another in search of accommodation,
People they don't understand me ,cause l have my own secret struggle,

The day my parents passed away, it was the last day to smile with my relatives,
The thought of losing the love of my parents, it was more than death itself,
I wish if my tears will go to their windowless homes, and bring them back,
I have bad relationship with myself and it is poisoning everything in my life.

Who will look after me,
Who wants to stay with a bugger like me,
Where do l look ,where will l go ,
Who wants a poorboy like me,

I hate to be poor.