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This is part of a story poem. I don’t really know poetry so i’m not sure if this is good or not. And i’m not sure on a name yet. @jane-maree @josiah @dakota @anyoneelsewhoknowspoetrymorethanido

Scorching heat,

Burning feet,

Waiting on those who still believe,

Who still hope, who still dream.

 

Laughing loud,

Talking proud,

Waiting on me to give them more,

Who will not hope, who will not dream.

 

Tiresome work,

Endless labor,

Wanting me to put on more plates,

For more to eat, for more to enjoy.

 

Happy mood,

Full of food,

Wanting me to hurry clear it away,

With a smile on my face, without another word to say.

 

Empty stomach,

Hurting heartache,

I push on as they slowly start to fade,

I push on to finish, I push on for the food to be made.

 

Costumers fade,

Food is made,

Paid workers all eat their fill,

While I serve all the food, all against my will.

 

Plate empty,

Hands shaky,

Nothing left for the servant girl,

Nothing left, nothing at all.

 

Lonely walk,

Across the block,

Where sticks, and stones were my only bed,

Where I fear that there would be my death.

 

Where would I go?

How would I know?

Why couldn’t they see the pain in my eyes?

Why couldn’t they see that the smiles were lies?

 

Why does it hurt?

Why do I have this pain?

Or does no one out their care?

And have hope to share?