How did I end up here?

Poverty creeps  a loathsome step, never announcing its arrival,

from finer means to meagre times, now dependant for survival.

To clothes that smell of thrift shop musk and shoes already worn

by people now long gone or dead,...and coats quite warm but torn….

The checkout girls impatient ‘tut’, you counting every penny

to find you’re still a little short -and must decide how many

items to discard to make the cost meet yours;

Eyes looking down in shame and knowing that this pregnant pause

reflects your future now.

When each step forward seems as though you take a step reverse,

as bills arrive you look within a deep, black, empty purse.

You work at making both ends meet but goalposts have been moved,

the person you once thought you were is gone and times have proved....

you’re now invisible.

Poverty is punishment….and you still serve the time….

Poverty is shame…and yet without a crime…..

Poverty is lack of aspiration and of hope,

of living everyday and praying that some way you’ll cope.

Deprivation reeks of apathy and fusty  half dried  clothes,

the smell of social housing mildew lingers up your nose

The rich will tell you that so many things in life are free,

I spend free time imagining people poorer still than me….

The mask comes off, the drink comes out…or would if cash was there,

My soul is dead, my spirit gone…. this life feels so unfair