The Street Of Pain. Poem by John Chizoba Vincent

I am from that street where people are neglected
Never bothered about but exploited.
the street where hopes and dreams dish
Away through frustration and disappointment.
We are seen always with spoon in our pocket
Wandering from hut to hut in search of of food,
Bare footed in our ghetto home.
We run around with food from street to street
looking for the fittest among us to eat eat the largest.
The street of pains where destitution and sorrow lived
That is where i came from.
Every one is a no body until you conquer fate
with an extraordinary move in your heart.
That kind of street where no one help you but
They are there to push you to the wall, then mock you.
And make nothing out of your dreams.
There, we live in an uncompleted building with no toilet and bathroom,
The lizards were our play mate and the snakes our neighbours.
We pass out our excrete in the bush behind our humble home,
And eat from our vomits yet happy and fine.
No one is ready to give you but ready to take from you.
The dark street filled with hyenas and wolves
With a mental, disordered commoners from the west bridge.
Little light penetrating in brings hopes but always quash by the
thugs.
The pick pocketers never sleep nor slumber, they lay awake under
The bridge trying to invade on their prey.
Thugs sing war songs in merriment of their stupidity
And those songs sent our heart in their bellies in fear.
In the vital part of the street are occupied by dustbin.
I am from that street of homeless children with torn clothes,
dangling on their stomach.
No one pity them rather they kidnapped and used them for rituals.
We never sleep at night without a sleeping pill
Yet you sleep awake.
I was once from the street of pain
Think not that all was well with me from the genesis.