Merchandise Poem by Wilson Tinotenda Waison

Childhood, dad left when I was conceived
His gene did mold beauty, the beast now
Struggling for survival in the hamlet awry
Gumbling, hustling conjugal visits for not
More than a dollar note. Some to blame me
For these deeds but my reasons never told
Confused on what to call it though the quest
Points to survival in this economic depression.

Some scores, mocks and take me for a joke
Even my conscience is painted black, Perceived
To be a villain not the victim how absurd it is
On my verge, A victim of circumstances, how
Beautiful. I pay the bill and some dues from
Revulsion sacred bounty, Yet still names I am
Called, Harsh and cold hearted are my sisters
And brothers not concerned about my affair.