Migrant Mother

Its been 3 months since we arrive at the habour of North America. Life was known to be much more decent and glorious here but nothing seemed to differ from my home. My husband always wonder around looking for a job to feed our children, who are starving day by day. I am right to say that we are hopeless, and that only luck is left to save us from this life.
Me and my children beg in the care streets on our knees for scraps of food while thousand of people in their black suits pass by us, knocking us over on purpose. We sleep in street corners and drink from puddles on the ground. I feel miserable and only is very sorry for my three children. I am not worthy to be called their mother and I would rather send them off with one of those fat rich man so that they can at least get a place to live in.
Everyday, we live in misery and hunger, always ravenous for anything we can eat. We have no ability to get any money or a house to live in. It seems like me and my children have caught a disease which never came upon us previously. My children have no more energy left in them and are always lying or sleeping. They even seem hate the brightness of the sun and care afraid of people in the streets.
I am always thinking away to get a grip in our lives but nothing comes to my mind as I sit there, dumbfounded and just waiting for something to come along and save us.