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David Matapo
In these cold and harsh streets of struggle,
Every day is a fight for survival,
With no one to care for me,
It’s just me against the world.
This isn’t the life I hungered for myself,
It’s not what I hope for in the future,
I don’t even know if I am capable of owning a future,
Something to call my own.
I live from hand to mouth,
My daily bread in garbage piles,
Baked bitter better in a heap of litter,
Even when it’s rotting, it still seems to glitter,
Nourishing enough to keep hunger at bay,
I set my hopes for a better day.
When the sky gets angry and cry rain,
There is no shelter to run to,
So I take comfort in the warm embrace of the streets,
Where the cold envelops me like a friend,
For the streets are all I have.
Some nights are unbearable,
Each day is a rollercoaster,
Faces passing me by with indifference,
Most of them casting judgmental looks,
Sentencing me by their nasty looks.
Each day I inch closer to my maker,
But who doesn’t?
It’s not easy existing in these shadowy alleys,
That breeds danger,
But do I have a choice?
Some say survival is better than living, so I keep striving,
Hoping that one day I’ll make a life for myself.
Online Reporter