A bloody miserable prose poem. =p

Here's the statistics of poverty:

80% of us live on less than 10 dollars a day.

25, 000 children died today because of poverty. They did yesterday, too. And they will tomorrow.

UNICEF says they "Die quietly... far removed from the scrutiny and conscience of the world."

Less than one percent of global expenditure on weapons spent instead on education would mean that every child could go to school. This hasn't happened.

There are 121 million uneducated children in the world.

About a billion people are unable to read or sign their names.

Here's the poverty of statistics:

They say nothing to us of the reality of the situation. They say nothing to us about Soa, a street-stall owner in Diego, who burst into tears of gratefulness when she was given 8 euros. They say nothing of her wrecked dignity and by extension our own.

They say nothing to us of how Jermaine Jackson has 26 toilets in his "main house" while over a billion of us have no access to any sanitation whatsoever.

They...bore us. Desensitise us. Even the personal stories manage only to elicit a vague and aimless empathy. Charity feels like a bandage on a broken arm.

Poverty stands.
A massive, shaking black elephant in the room. Desperately and noiselessly trumpeting.
Vast and incommunicable.