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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.
Worn eyes stare gently at my shy privilege
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”.