Days of Poor
The days are hot
The nights are cold.
I hate this place I got.
This desert is making me old.
Ants are everywhere.
But the kidnapper don't care.
The place reeks of urine stench.
Filth, mold, dust,& cobwebs with a broken fence.
I wish this dump would burn in flames.
This old hunch back crone & mama's boy is to blame.
This poem is about:
My family