I live in a country where evidences of scarcity are flooding on the road, even on the main streets of city. Everytime I go out as I tried to walk away from crafting and selling words, I saw on the streets those images of privation, starvation and the thickening pictures of the descendants of a faceless monster called—–poverty. Children laying down on sullied piles of newspapers with thin cans on their sides, adults walking on the street wearing hearth rug clothing, blind chaps holding walking sticks wandering around the crowded downtown begging for foods, crimes even on day times—who’s to be blame? The government? The people themselves? Or poverty alone?
Each of us has our own opinions. We might say that people are suffering from dearth because they are just way too uncreative, unresourceful, unhopeful and lazy. People who have grown up from destitution mostly do not have the positive side those mentioned characteristics. It could either be because of the fact that they were uneducated or perhaps they already lose hope.
I wouldn’t blame them. I wish I could help but I myself is struggling to keep my father and I’s life from drowning on destitution. Poverty didn’t use to had face on my sight, it still don’t has its physical appearance in my vision but it certainly had and has a dire painted picture inside my imagination.
If I were to sketch poverty into a physical form I would pencil in a deflated, square-shaped face, with a big checked-alike scar right beneath its right eye. It does not have a nose yet it breaths from the air of hope that it suck from the people who were swathe by its supremacy. Its skin is pale green and its bulging vision do not have eyeballs yet it can clearly see everything from the light of fears given to it by people who are suffering from hardship. It has very thick pale-green lips which dictate the poor to commit crime in order to stay on the darkness and to survive in any ways just for them to feed their aching stomach. It doesn’t have eyebrows to represent its pride. Poverty is fed by the people’s fear, hope, and dreams. It is the dark reality that blinds everyone in destitution.
If poverty has a face, a real one, visible to my eyes and can be touched by my hands, I would choke it, rip its skin’s face and shove it inside the pot of boiling water. Yet, I am nothing but words for I myself is only beginning to walk away from paucity.