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POVERTY
Poverty is sour milk.
It’s bitter,
It stings,
It’s rotten scent pings
Against your nose.
It curdles and thickens
And the discomfort quickens
Until it gets so thick,
That you can’t find your way out.
You’re stuck.
You’re stuck in this low
Place where you can no longer grow
Space is getting smaller
As you lose more and more.
The door you once used
To keep yourself in
Is now used to keep you out.
This line that decides your life
Doesn’t define your value,
Just the materialistic value
Of what you possess,
But these possessions are only things
And life isn’t about things
It’s about what you do with what you have.
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This was a poem written in response to the metaphor "poverty is sour milk."