I envy the man,
Who sleeps on the streets,
Whose widow,
Will sell her soul and then body,
To feed children,
Whose lives are worth less than condoms.
His existence all but a story,
Of food missing or on the plate.
His poverty, unlike the pennies in his pocket,
In abundance.
His appetite for cheap liquor,
More than what his liver can afford.
His wife; his prostitute; his bitch
The only combo meal
He has ever known.
Finally, his life,
Just waiting to meet a car,
A brawl or a failing liver,
Before he gets the chance
To turn old.
What fuel, to light poetic fire
What reason to express,
Grief and unfulfilled desire.
He has struggles but no words;
I have words but am embarrassed
To pen my struggles. 

(Picture Sourced Externally)

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