Writing live from my little room in the Hill. Fresh seeped herbal in old teacups. I unravel myself like the ends of this oversized ratty sweater. Because I’m poor ya know. And the happiest ole poor girl you ever met. I’m friends with all the ladies at the thrift shop. They put the latest inventory to the side for me. We chat like best friends, those old ladies and me. And 10 years vet is this season’s best. Because I’m poor ya know. Who knew it’d be going on 3 years since I’ve shopped in a department sto’?
Five star dinners made on $5 dollar budgets. Poor girl in a rich town gotta make something from nothin. And I’m still the thickest, most well-fed poor girl you’ll ever know. Mama taught us how to make that dough, stretch that dough. Add a little water and baking soda ya know. Whip it real hard, whip it, whip it, real hard.
Fake eyelashes and long weaves, girl please. But I can afford some shea butter, olive oil, and twist when I need. Pockets kinda linty but my heart is light. I dropped the weights of this world along with my mic. Because my happiness aint based on my net worth nor my network. But they say, ” You only say that because you’re poor ya know.”
So I sit in my oversized sweater and enjoy my abundance of free things that no one can take from me. I count my blessings of love, life, and freedom while basking in the glow of peace. Since that’s the only thing that I can afford because, hey, I’m poor ya know.