Cycle Of Poverty Poem by Peter Black

Cycle Of Poverty



To those who doubt that life is hard,
From their pomp and privilege, sight is blocked;
They do not feel the fear of a low wage,
Counting dimes on collection day,
Looking inside the icebox:
Seeing ice, bread ends and torn boxtops;
They do not know bus routes,
Or how hard it is to walk,
To work, back and forth every day and night,
With sore feet, swollen calves and burning thighs,
For sleep, to wake; do it all again.
The cycle of poverty never ends,
In a land where the rich are gods,
Where degrees do not guarantee jobs.
The only way out is taking on debt,
Begging for work, giving your soul; what is left,
Between the hours of sleep and slavery,
Between meals and traveling,
Are moments questioning what is right,
In a place where you trade the fair life,
For wrinkles, sweat and a meager sum,
To rich men, the while they call you bums.

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