Writers 
We don't have plenty, but we don't lack all,
just a home where money stretches thin and small,
where "next month" answers most of what we ask,
and saving coins becomes a daily task.
We eat well, but not always what we crave,
new clothes come rare, old ones we save,
mother checks the price before she buys,
father sighs sometimes, but rarely cries.
I didn't get the latest phone or shoes,
I learned to want less, learned not to lose
myself in comparing what I have to others,
learned contentment from my father and my mother.
School fees come with a little worry each session,
but somehow, someway, they always confirm
that we'll manage, that we'll find a way,
that tomorrow will be easier than today.
It's not a home of suffering or great pain,
just modest meals, and a budget kept plain,
just a family learning to make do,
stretching a little to see us through.
And in this home, though money is few,
there's laughter still, and dinner too,
there's warmth enough, and love that's real
just slightly poor, but rich in how we feel.
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Note: I don't plan my poems line by line, I write from sudden inspiration, the way a thought arrives and asks to be let out. That's why I call myself Afflatus: a sudden, unplanned rush of creative breath. This poem, like the others, came the same way.
