For the beggars on the street,

life is one restless boxing ring,

punched by drought,

uppercuted by finance,

TKO! trouble

I hope you know,

that it isn't the choice

of anyone to be smiling

at sackcloth,

but this menace,

imposes, compelled contentment

with tattered visages

It's not a glittering facade,

because when you're struck

with financial friction,

you drown in limitation,

the diversity of abilities

shrink, till you're

just an imp of misery

I just want you to

understand the beggars on the street,

who can see hunger,

laughing through

their ribs that cry visually,

sticking out,

standing out,

like they've been hung

by the persecution of life

Their lips are parched,

yes, because this is a really

common case of economic harmattan,

but they're body

burns at their being fried

in social oil

by the questions of this life,

where harshness is definitely

the frying pan.

                                          By Kakraba Afful

Just listen to the heartbeat

of disaster,

lips are trembling,

the future becomes one big

monster that swalloms them

in death

Debt is the hammer

that continues to hit their

head anytime they try

to flee for freedom,

in the extinction of money

Just see this social mathematics,

as to why the crime rate

increases,

with hunger dancing in the stomach,

burning unpleasantly,

eyes are reddening,

compassion is stolen by the drought

and their desperate hands

reach for the gun,

because death will be the price

to pay, if they sit

on the thorny seat of starvation

This is why we have robbers,

well, one of the reasons,

just look at crime,

and you know that somehow,

the hands of help have been hidden

from them,

but they linger happily

in the absence of salvation,

once the stomach indoctrinates

them with compelled evil

It's like a social nicotine

injected to them by the syringe

of hard times,

please, help poor and needy,

you never know,

because the stomach

has the strongest, persuasive voice,

when it comes to the court

of ones body.

                      By Kakraba Afful

Read poverty like a newspaper,

and you'll hear many stories,

crime is the tattered denim

they can find, if they're not compassion

and they lust of money

swallows them with greed

Read  "penny drought daily"

they're choking,

so sad and dry,

that they don't even have tears

to weep,

they sob but eyes are cracked

with want,

so anything that shines,

even deception is a magnet

that attracks their hands

Like I said, read "penny drought daily"

a covenant of emptiness,

is breeding hopelessness

because life continues to whip

them with no mercy,

the kind ones, I wishing

if a good soul with the light of the lord

would find them,

but the greedy ones, poverty

has even increased their

thirst for a quaint freedom,

freedom that may come by murder

or extrication that may come from stealing

In the spiral of poverty, the good ones

strongly resist the temptation of evil,

because it is eminent,

read the "penny drought daily"

you'll see it in the eyes

of the idle beings on the street,

then you'll know

what poverty tastes like.

                                         By Kakraba Afful

There is a strange craving for death,

but poverty is a slow accident,

you see, men,

shadows wrestling with lean alsatians

for a bone

The garbage is the next restaurant

for them,

and their mind wallowing in despair

in the mud of defeat,

they being has been made worthless,

just like the trash that they

feed on,

and with a bleak persistence,

hands that dive into worthlessness

to obtain something;

if there's no garbage, they'll

chew stones, that's for sure

Their hearts are wounded by restlessness

and how the nights can be

so unfriendly when they kill

their inner warmth with the flying cold

sent by the god of misfortune,

not even the scarf can

protect them

from this thermo-anarchy

The candle of mayhem

is lit and their soul darkens,

poverty, the wailing curse

that turns men to shadows

and women to emptiness

and children to worthlessness,

in the powerful silence

of grave worry.

                              By Kakraba Afful