I love the smell of poverty
Cause it's the smell of home
musty, dusty, crusty stairwells
Of food and grease and smoke
My grandpa in the kitchen
Summer heat blares everywhere
But nothing matters to a child
Whose bed is soft and tummy's full
From higher up here it seems
cracks in the wall more visible
The water tastes slightly off
Not the sparkly kind I'm used to
And has grandpa always looked
So old, so fragile, so tired?
And have I always felt so
Disgusted and appalled?
I want to go back, to what
they call "the good ol' days"
When all I had was good
Because I didn't know better
YOU ARE READING
Growing Pains
PoetryA retelling of growing up with all of the highs and lows. Condensed into few words are my experiences with people, self-discovery, and the small parts of life and the world I've gotten to see through the windows of my childhood home.
