Being poor, I used to think,
Was what those kids in Africa
Seeing as I was told copious amounts of times,
that they didn’t have anything to eat.
So i should be grateful.
Grateful, I wasn’t.
[ note: there was no hint of … they were dispossessed people … dispossessed of their lands, their culture … their food. Yeah … we didn’t ‘know’ about that shit then! ]
But I did think, being poor,
Was about the not’s.
Not having what I wanted.
Not having my clothes bought from a nice shop, instead of the Op Shop.
Not getting what all those other kids had.
In which case, we were poor,
Well, a sort of poor.
But it turns out,
Poor looks a lot different when you’re standing
On your own two feet.
When you’re not a child anymore.
Poor looks very different also,
when you’re still in a house with walls.
Or when you have a choice of what to eat for breakfast.
Poor looks different when its Not a choice.
Although I ate weetbix and custard for two weeks
While my kids were away
So I could pay for the power bill:
Or I kept the kids at home, instead of sending them to school,
because I had no petrol,
And couldn’t afford the bus ticket:
Or, I smoked the butts out of the ashtray
Because smokes weren’t part of the budget:
This still is Not poor.
It’s not poverty.
It’s a choice.
A choice for something else.
It is also a choice that
I’m grateful I got to make.
Grateful and thankful
For every little bit of food
Every stitch of clothing
Every whole puff I have now.
You see, being 1st world poor,
Aint like being 3rd world, disenfranchised, impoverished, dispossessed poor.
Crying like a little bitch because I’ve run out of toilet paper,
Is not the same as having nowhere to shit in the first place.