My Maama gave birth to me from a broken glass
My Paapa gave birth to me on the lost of my maama's virginity on the grass
These torn pages of the novel, are the agony of the felony on the bridges of the sins of my Paapa
This torn edges of my of my clothes are the pains of my loneliness of the cages of my Maama
I lost my Maama when I was six on the street, she was knocked down by a car trying to make a living
I lost all attempts to locate any relative of my Maama in the living
Begging for food and eating from the dust bins become my strength for survival
Carrying for helping hand was a lost hope for survival
Giving up on life is a suicidal
I slept under empty bridges and gutters
I slept on empty stomach and thirsty for good drinking waters
I survived the cholera out brakes and the malaria attacks on strong immune responses
I survived the kidnappeds and abuses by the mercy of the Almighty by the oppressors
I learned how to run errands for the market women to make money
I learned how to raise money for my school to live on honey
I saw myself through the light at the end of the tunnel
I saw an end to my life on the street at end of the final year in the funnel
It's was not easy but it's was wealthy
It's was just nasty but it's was just healthy
©® Felix Atta Amoakoh
8/10/22
©felixatta
F