I don't know how old I am,
Not in years, months or days,
For I never celebrated my birthday,
In those traditional, joyous ways.
I have never had my parents
Bring me cakes and balloons,
But I still had a party with
Those jobless, roadside bafoons.
Children my age, share lovely gifts,
While I still long to find an amigo,
But I do enjoy the days when I don't
Combat against hunger, my foe.
I hide behind the curtains,
Every night, at parties mediocre,
Where the kind man, that solicitous waiter,
Brings me the savory, delicious leftover.
But the best part of the year,
Is when we, the children of dirt,
Are donated new worn-out clothes,
Our naked soul's only hearth.
That equivalents to a gift,
And the party that makes me gay,
Though truly I'm unaware, but,
I consider that day as my birthday.
*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*
A/N: It's so unfair that a small child has to go through something like this. In the age when they are supposed to learn to walk, they are learning to survive, and it's heartbreaking.
Tell me your views on it.
YOU ARE READING
Words Of An Idle Mind
Poetry~this idle mind is no devil's workshop~ •••~•••~••• ||Featured on WATTPAD CHRONICLE -May2018 (wattpad's official monthly magazine)|| || Featured on WATTPAD CHRONICLE- July2018 (wattpad's official monthly magazine)|| ||Featured on @AmbassadorJP readi...
