Lost Child In My Own Home Poem by Hudhaifah Siyad

In her home I suffer,
Rationed food and rationed wood,
Bread slices and rationed butter,
Scorns and all the words they utter,
Are some deepest of secrets you won't hear.

For I take that only form,
Of a lost child in my own home,
Assuming this has been the only norm,
Of having water and a plate of corn.

Her eldest kid sits by me and asks,
Do you have anything you own,
No, I say with a little frown,
Do you have parents,
No, they are long gone.
Do we do you bad,
No, I say.