As poverty got worse
I thought about leaving
Not far;
but weaving.
Somewhere
I could forget my problems
A vacation;
a grieving.
A place
where I could enjoy the sun
A place that far.
Where liquor was plenty
and drugs dependent
And I could see the teeth;
the smiling back at me;
the people's glee
Where I was
What I was doing
The people cared
actually.
I let them
I missed them
I wanted them
I craved them
I went
I saw
and enjoyed
and came back
I was home
I was happy
and I missed them
Strangers: not poor
practically
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem