The broken down houses sing the blues as they slowly fall away.
I notice the way the roof is sinking in
The windows have bullet holes
to match the holes in the hearts of those that live there.
The way the door is coming off the hinges
and the porch stairs are splintering at the seams.
The way the trees hang lower than all our heads
-Poverty
YOU ARE READING
My Truth
PoetryA book of poetry based on my point of view on the wonders life hold.
