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

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741