Grace Hammond


These words
that are my own
Are my blood and
are my bones.

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August 14, 2015

PROMPT: The Unknown

I don't know much about poverty
Living with scars from fear 
Of each meal being this week's last 
Of my mother depriving herself for me 

I don't know the feeling 
Of hunger sinking in its teeth 
Of running my fingers over skin stretched thin 
And touching the bones beneath 

I don't know the sound 
Of my father crying at night 
Of the wailing of my brother 
Or the silence of still eyes 

I don't know the yearning 
For a roof over my head 
I don't have to wonder 
What it is to sleep with a pillow 

I don't know the pain 
Of watching my sister waste away 
Of seeing eyes sink deeper into skulls
And bodies turning into skeletons 

I don't know poverty 
I don't know its face 
I don't know it's voice
Screaming my name
And for this I am grateful everyday. 


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1 Comment
  • Grace Mary Potts

    Oh I love this! The descriptions and the pain and - ugh! It's tragic and brilliant. Seriously though, stop being such a good writer Grace! You're making the rest of us look bad.

    almost 5 years ago