May 12, 2016


5/12/2016 — cori

This sick, narsty (these are positive traits, or so at least I'm told - I'm speaking his language) 8th grader just wrote an amazing poem for his English class. He gave me permission to share it here:


I'm walking down the street in a poverty ridden city
Looking for a place eat, trying to swallow my pity.
When I see that old man holding up a sign
I give him all the change of mine.
He smiles and grabs my hand, thanking me
And asks if I want to hear a story of what he used to be.
So I sit down with him on his cardboard house
 He talks about how he didn't used to be like this.
He said his life used to be a happy bliss,
And he shares memories that he will always miss.
He talks about how he used to be attacked by a mob,
As the police sat back and watched, not doing their job.
I hear about the injustice that cannot be stopped.
He used to be a janitor and mopped.
He talks about the fear that was behind every corner,
And how when his son died, he became a mourner.
Poverty is like tasting the hottest hot-sauce with no water in sight,
It's so painful you just want to fight.
Poverty is like a deadly disease,
It has pain with no cure and no ease
So let's end poverty, please.

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