“Born a Poverty Slayer”
“Born a Poverty Slayer”
We do not wear medals—
only the burn of long hours,
and the sting of scorn disguised as structure.
We do not wield swords—
but spoons,
feeding futures in quiet halls,
where dignity is rationed
and hope must be multiplied.
Every day we fall,
but every day we rise—
not as losers,
but as those who choose to stand
while everything else crumbles.
The paycheck is low,
but the purpose is high.
The rank is small,
but the burden? A mountain.
Still, we climb—
with broken backs and bleeding hearts,
because the children cannot wait
for a better system.
So torture us with tasks,
strip us of title,
but do not dare
lecture us with your hollow pride.
We are born of ashes,
forged in fire,
fed not by praise
but by the hunger in our nation’s bones.
We are poverty slayers—
armed with charts, spoons,
and the silent vow
never to let a child starve
because the world turned away.
If we fail,
we do not fall alone—
the young fall with us.
So we do not fail.
We fight.
We feed.
We remain.
Angel Chua
Note:
I wrote these poems to inspire myself in my work. Though I am often brought low and crushed by the weight of each day, I do not see myself as a loser. We are in a daily battle—against poverty, against silence, and even against ourselves—as we fight for our nation through the work of nutrition.
Each day brings its own struggle: low income, lowly positions, and the quiet wounds of harsh words from those above us. We silently endure the blows of unlikely and unkind remarks. But as General Acacius said in Gladiator II, “Torture me if you want, but do not lecture me with your words.”
We are not mere workers—we are poverty slayers. With nothing but a spoke of spoons, we lift this nation one meal, one child, one act of courage at a time. And if we fail, it is not us alone who fall—the young will knock on their own graves too soon.
So we fight. We rise. We serve.
We do not wear medals—
only the burn of long hours,
and the sting of scorn disguised as structure.
We do not wield swords—
but spoons,
feeding futures in quiet halls,
where dignity is rationed
and hope must be multiplied.
Every day we fall,
but every day we rise—
not as losers,
but as those who choose to stand
while everything else crumbles.
The paycheck is low,
but the purpose is high.
The rank is small,
but the burden? A mountain.
Still, we climb—
with broken backs and bleeding hearts,
because the children cannot wait
for a better system.
So torture us with tasks,
strip us of title,
but do not dare
lecture us with your hollow pride.
We are born of ashes,
forged in fire,
fed not by praise
but by the hunger in our nation’s bones.
We are poverty slayers—
armed with charts, spoons,
and the silent vow
never to let a child starve
because the world turned away.
If we fail,
we do not fall alone—
the young fall with us.
So we do not fail.
We fight.
We feed.
We remain.
Angel Chua
Note:
I wrote these poems to inspire myself in my work. Though I am often brought low and crushed by the weight of each day, I do not see myself as a loser. We are in a daily battle—against poverty, against silence, and even against ourselves—as we fight for our nation through the work of nutrition.
Each day brings its own struggle: low income, lowly positions, and the quiet wounds of harsh words from those above us. We silently endure the blows of unlikely and unkind remarks. But as General Acacius said in Gladiator II, “Torture me if you want, but do not lecture me with your words.”
We are not mere workers—we are poverty slayers. With nothing but a spoke of spoons, we lift this nation one meal, one child, one act of courage at a time. And if we fail, it is not us alone who fall—the young will knock on their own graves too soon.
So we fight. We rise. We serve.
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