PoemsBrowse PoemsSlamsFresh DropEchoes
LearnWriting TipsPoetry TermsPoets & ArtistsBooksFor Teachers
ExplorePoetry GenomePoem MapEchoesTake ActionGroups
AboutWrite a PoemDonateSign UpLog In

Poverty


Filthy hands, wrinkled face that is what father looked like everytime he came home.

5 dollars an hour, 7 days a week, father worked in the field.

No sight of him from day to night.

Becoming more stressed from the load of bills

Pilled high day by day

Now way out, so he won't stay.

©All Rights Reserved

Something wrong with this poem?

Share

Replies are closed for this poem.

Your Poem's Voice

See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.

Comments (0)

No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.

Log in to leave a comment.