Poverty is war (Poem)

 

Poverty is violence.
Not always with guns
But with empty plates,
Closed doors,
And dreams strangled before they breathe.

It is waking up angry
Not at the world,
But at your own reflection
For daring to hope
With nothing in your hands.

Poverty doesn’t whisper
It chokes.
It drags ambition through mud
And laughs
When effort still isn’t enough.

It is talent buried alive,
Ideas suffocating in darkness,
A mind built for greatness
Trapped in survival mode.

You don’t sleep in poverty
You negotiate with hunger.
You don’t plan
You react.
You don’t live
You endure.

And the world?
The world watches
Calls it “motivation,”
Posts quotes,
While people bleed silently in the background.

But hear this

Poverty picked the wrong generation.

Because from the dust,
From the anger,
From the nights that refused to end

A different breed is rising.

Unpolished.
Unapologetic.
Unbreakable.

They will not romanticize struggle
They will destroy it.

Poverty is not my identity.
It is my enemy.

And I am coming for its throat.