"maids" poems
This is the easy time, there is nothing doing.
I have whirled the midwife's extractor,
I have my honey,
Six jars of it,
Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar,
Wintering in a dark without window
At the heart of the house
Next to the last tenant's rancid jam
and the bottles of empty glitters ----
Sir So-and-so's gin.
This is the room I have never been in
This is the room I could never breathe in.
The black bunched in there like a bat,
No light
But the torch and its faint
Chinese yellow on appalling objects ----
Black asininity. Decay.
Possession.
It is they who own me.
Neither cruel nor indifferent,
Only ignorant.
This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees
So slow I hardly know them,
Filing like soldiers
To the syrup tin
To make up for the honey I've taken.
Tate and Lyle keeps them going,
The refined snow.
It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers.
They take it. The cold sets in.
Now they ball in a mass,
Black
Mind against all that white.
The smile of the snow is white.
It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen,
Into which, on warm days,
They can only carry their dead.
The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady.
They have got rid of the men,
The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.
Winter is for women ----
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanis walnut,
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
40.8k
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing—
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay—
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet—
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring, the sweet Spring!
11.8k
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
A bunch of roses so she won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
6 roundtrip vacations
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
7 maids a waiting
6 roundtrip vacations
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
8 new yachts
7 maids a waiting
6 roundtrip vacations
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
9 airplanes flying
8 new yachts
7 maids a waiting
6 roundtrip vacations
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
10,000 dollars
9 new airplanes
8 new yachts
7 maids a waiting
6 roundtrip vacations
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of flowers
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
11 new purses
10,000 dollars
9 airplanes flying
8 new yachts
7 maids a waiting
6 roundtrip vacations
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
The last thing I got that truly broke me
12 different houses
11 new purses
10,000 dollars
9 airplanes flying
8 new yachts
7 maids a waiting
6 roundtrip vacations
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
After this she better marry me
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:37 AM UTC
We were poets,
Once,
Hearts etched upon our sleeve
The lords of our intent,
Words bloomed for all to see.
Each branch of thought considered,
Chiseled,
Whittled to express.
Carving the forest in our likeness
We paved the landscape with our breath.
Woods would sway in idle days
Sunkissed glades lay bathed in gold.
Nights waylaid by dancing maids
Cheap ale and tales of old.
Fires burn, flames unfold.
Though
Embers remember
Tender clutch of the cold.
We tend to forget the bargained,
The sold.
Up rivers and creeks,
Paddles, disowned by the meek,
Cast away to distant shores.
Glades decay,
Fade to grey.
We become poets once more.
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 4:01 AM UTC
Maids, not to you my mind doth change;
Men I defy, allure, estrange,
Prostrate, make bond or free:
Soft as the stream beneath the plane
To you I sing my love's refrain;
Between us is no thought of pain,
Peril, satiety.
Soon doth a lover's patience tire,
But ye to manifold desire
Can yield response, ye know
When for long, museful days I pine,
The presage at my heart divine;
To you I never breathe a sign
Of inward want or woe.
When injuries my spirit bruise,
Allaying virtue ye infuse
With unobtrusive skill:
And if care frets ye come to me
As fresh as nymph from stream or tree,
And with your soft vitality
My weary ***** fill.
10.1k
'Why keep a cow when I can buy,'
Said he, 'the milk I need,'
I wanted to spit in his eye
Of selfishness and greed;
But did not, for the reason he
Was stronger than I be.
I told him: ''Tis our human fate,
For better or for worse,
That man and maid should love and mate,
And little children nurse.
Of course, if you are less than man
You can't do what we can.
'So many loving maids would wed,
And wondrous mothers be.'
'I'll buy the love I want,' he said,
'No squally brats for me.'
. . . I hope the devil stoketh well
For him a special hell.
7.4k
Chivalry is dead
This I was taught at age eight
While sitting at my poorly organized desk in the third grade
Still believing cooties were being bred in the boys around me
The death of chivalry was not hard to fathom
Chivalry is dead
When we were young
Listening to the stories of old maids
Recounting tales of bitter divorce
In between addition problems
Making sure no one saw us counting on our fingers
Chivalry is dead
We thought
But what was it anyway?
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
In the burning right hand of the bald city,
denizens frame calories and count instagram blessings
while beacons of hope refund inspiration in USADA *** cups.
Abyssinian maids wail over yesterday lovers
who wore Ginsberg’s skirt with less pizzazz
and watched bedbugs **** blood off knee caps
wondering, what if Jesus Christ drove a Nissan?
As bullets of paragraphs fall Vietnamese pesticides on my head,
The dusts off my breath sing homilies
With letters of broken leather whiskey,
For even in the most dishonest jest,
clandestine toothbrushes are overrated
and every first false lie is the only truth.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
Oh beloved princess,
I'm just a commoner,
I just drink cannabis,
Lime & shank I have.
You are daughter of the king,
I lack any maids or servants,
You are protected by shawls,
I lack even a blanket or rug..
Get married to a moneylender,
Marry a lucky man...
I have pieces of purity,
But I'm just a commoner,
I just drink cannabis,
Lime & shank I have.
You live in the palaces,
I roam the wilderness,
You are not used to it,
I am used to roaming.
Get married to a rich man,
Marry a lucky man.
I just have purity in me,
Yes, I'm a commoner,
I just drink cannabis,
Lime & shank is all I have.
I carry on my austerity in incense,
I drink a slurry of cinders,
I tame hundreds of snakes on my neck,
I will scare you off my saturnalia.
You need a man with wavy hair,
A man with wavy hair.
My hair is dishevelled,
I am a commoner,
And I drink cannabis,
All I have is a lime & shank.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
Friend Rockstar,
Listen, yield to a robust think-tank,
earlobes skidding against wheat and grain.
Terrible story, yes, what happened to that little girl.
Sterile teddy nightgowns weeping in the squad car windows.
Teacher – Teacher, do you harken my yodels for grace?
I’ve never been maternal.
Put the game on. Abortion.
That’s what I’m about.
Grab a bra. Sling some weight.
That’s what I’m about.
Some housefly wings on a weathered corn cob.
Some downhome, homegrown twang for those fancy, fussy britches.
Muddy workboots. Sweat-soaked collars.
That’s what I’m about.
Him done made me read, sir.
What sacraments did we write today?
I can still remember my first broken bone.
I can still remember my first broken *****
That could be what this is all about.
Mary, Mary, you can be contrite,
so knife – so critter – so laze – so stalked.
Who fertilized your seeds? Who reared your sprouts?
Cockle shells and silver bells, honey,
can’t grow up
to be pretty little maids all in a row.
Sterile teddy nightgowns – green bells in gaseous gardens.
Friend Rockstar, you may have to sleep.
This restless harbor is a shivering anecdote spilled from a belly,
a vast, deep cavern with love notes written in milk.
Your fried, stern smile was a flaking fingernail adjacent to the crack in the flowerpot.
Some garden, I say.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
Too far away, oh love, I know,
To save me from this haunted road,
Whose lofty roses break and blow
On a night-sky bent with a load
Of lights: each solitary rose,
Each arc-lamp golden does expose
Ghost beyond ghost of a blossom, shows
Night blenched with a thousand snows.
Of hawthorn and of lilac trees,
White lilac; shows discoloured night
Dripping with all the golden lees
Laburnum gives back to light.
And shows the red of hawthorn set
On high to the purple heaven of night,
Like flags in blenched blood newly wet,
Blood shed in the noiseless fight.
Of life for love and love for life,
Of hunger for a little food,
Of kissing, lost for want of a wife
Long ago, long ago wooed.
. . . . . .
Too far away you are, my love,
To steady my brain in this phantom show
That passes the nightly road above
And returns again below.
The enormous cliff of horse-chestnut trees
Has poised on each of its ledges
An ***** small girl looking down at me;
White-night-gowned little chits I see,
And they peep at me over the edges
Of the leaves as though they would leap, should I call
Them down to my arms;
"But, child, you're too small for me, too small
Your little charms."
White little sheaves of night-gowned maids,
Some other will thresh you out!
And I see leaning from the shades
A lilac like a lady there, who braids
Her white mantilla about
Her face, and forward leans to catch the sight
Of a man's face,
Gracefully sighing through the white
Flowery mantilla of lace.
And another lilac in purple veiled
Discreetly, all recklessly calls
In a low, shocking perfume, to know who has hailed
Her forth from the night: my strength has failed
In her voice, my weak heart falls:
Oh, and see the laburnum shimmering
Her draperies down,
As if she would slip the gold, and glimmering
White, stand naked of gown.
. . . . . .
The pageant of flowery trees above
The street pale-passionate goes,
And back again down the pavement, Love
In a lesser pageant flows.
Two and two are the folk that walk,
They pass in a half embrace
Of linked bodies, and they talk
With dark face leaning to face.
Come then, my love, come as you will
Along this haunted road,
Be whom you will, my darling, I shall
Keep with you the troth I trowed.
4.2k
flights of sparrows
familiar plays
regress
into subliminal
messages
What would Oedipus
say of universal
fatherhood
come says the snowfinch
cinnamon ibon familiar songs
where we play with maids and they
eat seeds
innocently
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC
Oh fairest of the rural maids!
Thy birth was in the forest shades;
Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,
Were all that met thy infant eye.
Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child,
Were ever in the sylvan wild;
And all the beauty of the place
Is in thy heart and on thy face.
The twilight of the trees and rocks
Is in the light shade of thy locks;
Thy step is as the wind, that weaves
Its playful way among the leaves.
Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene
And silent waters heaven is seen;
Their lashes are the herbs that look
On their young figures in the brook.
The forest depths, by foot unpressed,
Are not more sinless than thy breast;
The holy peace, that fills the air
Of those calm solitudes, is there.
3.9k
With the house they are selling their childhood and adolescence, five funny brothers and grandmother's sweets, late night dramas and the unattractive maids they inherited, cigarettes they puffed secretly and lessons they learned with jackfruit pulp. Now the roots are being pulled and I wonder what'll be left. I wish people live there, generations come and play on its front yard and I hope my ancestors understand new generation urbanism and modernity.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
115
What Inn is this
Where for the night
Peculiar Traveller comes?
Who is the Landlord?
Where the maids?
Behold, what curious rooms!
No ruddy fires on the hearth—
No brimming Tankards flow—
Necromancer! Landlord!
Who are these below?
3.6k
Loons in the vineyard – sound the alarm !
Satan is milking his metaphors.
Such silly music portends no harm;
call home the cows and open your doors.
Brian Hugh Warner, a paleface freak
after finding his mom’s mascara
darker enlightenment did seek
and crowned himself with Baal’s tiara.
Scary drag-queen, scandalous, vain
Marilyn – the creepy thespian
rolled that fish-eye and snorted *******
like Crowley… how pedestrian.
Flashing his glowing cataract,
he gave the mommies quite a fright.
Censorship launched; no badder act
did sail (or assail) our sinking night.
Gothic dim-wits purchased CD’s
bought the goods, pierced parts, wore black.
(Cause for certain parents’ unease:
MTV’s Antichrist on the attack).
Son of Man – or rather, Manson
Milked to the max his demonic cow;
playing Satan’s naughty grandson
showing the flustered milk-maids how.
Urban legend surrounds this fowl
(those ribs removed – like Adam’s sin!)
Is he a misunderstood night owl –
or a has-been loon in a loony bin?
Rock-stars age (well, most) like a cheap wine.
or else in the way once-ripened grapes
withering, sun-struck, off the vine
transform, with age, into wizened shapes.
No – I am wrong. They age like prunes;
plums thus pass into their glory.
Even Luciferian loons
find lakes of fire at end of story.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
I dream’d this mortal part of mine
Was Metamorphoz’d to a Vine;
Which crawling one and every way,
Enthrall’d my dainty Lucia.
Me thought, her long small legs & thighs
I with my Tendrils did surprize;
Her Belly, Buttocks, and her Waste
By my soft Nerv’lits were embrac’d:
About her head I writhing hung,
And with rich clusters (hid among
The leaves) her temples I behung:
So that my Lucia seem’d to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curles about her neck did craule,
And armes and hands they did enthrall:
So that she could not freely stir,
(All parts there made one prisoner.)
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts, which maids keep unespy’d,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took,
That with the fancie I awook;
And found (Ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a Stock then like a Vine.
3.5k
*"mary mary quite contrary
how does your garden grow
with silver bells and cockle shells
and pretty maids all in a row”*
homecoming queen
ballgown made of polythene
they always said in trash bags
you could still look haute couture
leave em wanting more
now, the only thing i’m sure of
is laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground
angel dusted lips of blue
and eyes of lapis lazuli
all the water in the river
couldnt fill the chasm
this microcosmic monster ****** bone dry
cause the only thing i’m sure of
is laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground
even her jewellery is broken hearted
all cut up like lines of cheap *******
it feels like all the world is utterly uncharted
with you gone i am lost in fog
you’re planted in my brain
oh, laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground
oh laura, laura, laura palmer
golden girl, enchanted charmer
you will still be crowned
laura, lovely laura palmer
you’ve got a date with the embalmer
and afterwards there’s coffee in the ground
i promise, doll, i swear
you’ve nothing, no one left to fear
you’re all walled in and safe, my dear
my darling laura, laura in the ground
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Cinderella, Cinderella
Where have you been?
Wash the windows, sweep the floors
Do all the chores
Cinderella Cinderella
Where have you been?
Those clothes are mine not for you
Change before I claw you
Cinderella, Cinderella
Where have you been?
Pumpkins aren't carriages, mice can't be horses
***** aren't for maids
Cinderella, Cinderella
Why can't you stay?
One dance isn't enough
You must please stay
Cinderella, Cinderella
What were you thinking?
The prince doesn't love you
Fairy tales are for children
Cinderella, Cinderella
When will you learn?
Happily ever after is only in books
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 9:04 AM UTC
I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
II
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned--
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.
III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind--
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.
Susanna's music touched the ***** strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
3.5k
Maids at noon
Performers in the eve'
Maria and Ayla worked,
For every penny they stole.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
Beauties, have ye seen this toy,
Called Love, a little boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blind;
Cruel now, and then as kind?
If he be amongst ye, say?
He is Venus' runaway.
She that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kiss,
How or where herself would wish:
But who brings him to his mother,
Shall have that kiss, and another.
He hath marks about him plenty:
You shall know him among twenty.
All his body is a fire,
And his breath a flame entire,
That, being shot like lightning in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.
At his sight, the sun hath turned,
Neptune in the waters burned;
Hell hath felt a greater heat;
Jove himself forsook his seat:
From the centre to the sky,
Are his trophies reared high.
Wings he hath, which though ye clip,
He will leap from lip to lip,
Over liver, lights, and heart,
But not stay in any part;
But if chance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himself in kisses.
He doth bear a golden bow,
And a quiver, hanging low,
Full of arrows, that outbrave
Dian's shafts; where, if he have
Any head more sharp than other,
With that first he strikes his mother.
Still the fairest are his fuel.
When his days are to be cruel,
Lovers' hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest blood:
Naught but wounds his hands doth season,
And he hates none like to Reason.
Trust him not; his words, though sweet,
Seldom with his heart do meet.
All his practice is deceit;
Every gift it is a bait;
Not a kiss but poison bears;
And most treason in his tears.
Idle minutes are his reign;
Then, the straggler makes his gain
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have ye think them joys:
'Tis the ambition of the elf
To have all childish as himself.
If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him.
Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him;
Since you hear his falser play,
And that he's Venus' runaway.
3.3k
Latin love to be called ******* we pick fruits and vegetables for a living.
We latins love cleaning toilets and floors and being maids in rich households.
Latins steal what ever ain't tied or sealed to something in rich homes we work as maids in.
Latins are mainly janitors or mechanics.
Latins got a natural instinct to run when we don't have a a green card from the border patrol.
Latins love being migrant workers.
Latins dance and have *** all day.
Latins don't believe in birth control and our population is growing faster than one of my other cultures asians.
We latins think our skin is not brown we closer to white and bleach our hair blonde.
We latins love mooch off all and not pay back what we borrow.
We love drugs and make them and sell them in our ghettos.
We live in small houses with hundreds of family and other latins living in only one room.
Latins favorite foods are tacos not like ones taco bell makes.
Latins are lazy.
Latins come to America to get welfare and make their babies legal immigrants.
My latin uncles cell fruit on the freeway off ramp when they aint out doing drugs and scamming money off someone.
Latins come to America love working as day laborers to get a day of pay then don't got back to work cause they lazy.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
OUR POVERTY HAS COLOUR
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
Most illusive and elusive
Like the devils of Congo forest
Is the impish poverty
Permeating all seals with vicious wily
Into the midst of callous humanity
Biting country men and country women
With carnivorous dentalities so ruthless
Putting man to a forlorn shame
As the wife looks in desperate flaggerbastation
Putting matriarchal womenfolk to humiliation
As the expectant sire wallow in the askance of looks
Condemning communities to status ad absurdum initio
Thinning man from man, culling woman from woman
Eating flesh by flesh social koprpers of man
Eating the native flesh in the farms of Brazil
Tearing the ***** steak into ghetto lacerations of Chicago
Whizzling sombre morning tunes to the Zulus in the black tundra
Cementing pale casted clusters for the Patels of India
Commanding suave drills to poor (wo) menfolk; left! Left! Left! –abouuuuturn!
With its accomplice Mr. Hunger son of starvation, they both command drills
For black factory workers, Maids and gravediggers to dance
Watchmen, thieves and prostitutes to match
In the hinterland of Africa all the riff-raff in deep despair
Dance in a tandem to the irritating drills of the duo;
You come on! Left! Right! Left! Right!—fowaaard match!
Backward match! Left! Right! Left! Right! Sharpp uuuuuuuturn!
The duo communiqué; Go home and wait for your pay announcement.
Surely; what colour is our poverty?
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
I live in a luxurious apartment,
She lives in a makeshift hut in the slums,
I sleep on the most comfortable bed,
She sleeps on the floor,
I have a chef and maids to cater for me,
She has her mum and siblings to cater for her,
My chef cooks tasty meals with latest gadgets,
Her mum cooks on firewood the best meals I have ever tasted,
For there is love of her mum in it.
I eat mostly alone,
My family have no time ,each busy in his/her own life,
Her family eats together on the floor and her mum sometimes feeds her,
They joke and laugh together,
I sit alone in my room , busy on my computer, doing homework or chatting,
After dinner her family sits outside the hut gossiping with neighbours while she does her homework under the streetlight .
I enjoy being at my friend's place more because she always has her family who cares,
There is laughter and happiness at her place although they have so little,
They are content with what they have,
I am glad I have a friend like her and her family to share.
24/8/2019
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 7:09 AM UTC