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.