A field of rusted chains abound on the poles,
paint-peeled and forgotten.
The swings are entangled upon the top,
broken in half or torn off completely.
Not long ago, the playground was new and shiny,
waiting to be used.
Only to be broken shortly after by my slightly younger,
angrier "brothers and sisters".
Who defiantly wore it out,
full of a rage to hurt "The Man"
by ruining his present to them.
And it is left,
only as a ghetto monument,
a frame for them to duck and weave through
- a shell of it's former self.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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My family was very poor when I was younger, so I can relate to this...its hard to not be offended by charity even if it is backed by good intentions. This was very good!
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You You brought the reader in and and they related to your writing with your vivid imagry and discription. There seems to be more to tell. Short story perhaps?
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WOW!
Are you a professional writer? If not, when do you plan to be because OMG! You are a GIFTED and TALENTED writer 
. You are a blessing to we fellow poets. BTW... I took your advice and wrote a poem "Homeless in My Hometown." Thanks for the suggestion... 
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What some will do to make a point, to spite themselves even. Liked the flow of these lines, and the great picture which really adds to the presentation. Ghetto monument, indeed.
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