Allow me to tell you about someone I know,

Born into poverty many years ago.

Poverty, more like a robbery of a luxury, yoh!

It didn’t matter to him as a kid,

It didn’t affect him for real.

Things got real when he became a teen

It felt like a pretty big deal,

Cause it now affects how he feel.

Hope to him, a forever rolling wheel,

Never reaching its destination.

Hanging on his mind is a question;

Will he ever get any salvation?

Suicide is out of the question,

But sometimes feels like an option.

An option to bring about revolution.

To his problems, a permanent solution.

See, his life was not in a good condition.

It was somewhat a psychological pollution.

A pollution, preventing him from being an authentic version of himself.

Growing up, he cared less living in a shack,

Age by age, things seemed to be getting worse.

He’s out of school but he’s getting no paycheck.

He feels depressed but no one can tell.

They don’t notice, maybe they don’t care.

Even if they did, how would it help?

See, boy feels like he’s losing himself.

It hurts to think the world might never meet the real him if things continue being this bad.

Deep down he knows he was born to be the best,

The best, different from the rest.

He fears his dreams never meeting reality,

The future lacks clarity.

Time loosing its quantity threatens to keep him tied to a life of charity.

A life, according to him, NOT WORTH LIVING.