endhomelessness
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A child sits on a dirty floor
The wind howls through the door
This is where the child calls home
On the street where the child can roam
Her estate is a dangerous place
The paper crinkled between my fingers.
The lost valuable trash that had fluttered up at me
flapped in the crisp, biting breeze.
The dull, familiar color of green is what I recognized first.
That homeless girl
That could have been me.
She seems trapped in poverty,
But to me she seems free.
At a young age
She leared to grow up
How to be a leader
Instead of making a fuss.
They’re ungrateful; they got themselves in that position; they’re just being lazy,One man I served at a soup kitchen even said-“you spend too much time helping us; you will become one of us”.
