My Hands, My Parents. Poem by Raheem Lyttle Kiyaga

Days going harder everytime,
And very gruesome,
Nightmares whenever I
Lay bold head down
On the dusty cold floor,
I call home, and bed,
Rainy days and cold nights,
Nowhere to run to,
Busy arcades, and flooded drainages,
With water and sewages,
The would have been the only place,
Why guards keep at night?
And suppress me to
Sleep in my bed, verander!

My hands, my parents bought it from,
Gabbage arcade next to diseases street,
My hands, my parents.

Getting off these streets is my dreams,
Having a family and also
Getting my siblings off here,
I work with begging company,
My boss Mr Travellers Pedestrians,
And his stuff
They don't pay me, I'm not paid,
All they say is that,
'I've grown up, and
I know it,
I wanna get off here,
Get a job and get a house,
Nobody I know and,
Where to start from.......
My hands, My parents.