Poverty
Our home is cold like the crisp December air
The inside is occupied by nothingness
And a mattress on the floor.
We live on the corner of unable to make ends meet
And trying to make enough to pay to eat.
Living off of food stamps and government pay
Barely making it day by day.
Our bank account holds a trampoline amount
We go out to eat, our cheques bounce.
We are treated like the dirt on your doormat
Swept under and forgotten
Waiting on times to change.