Today is one of those days
when your throat is sore for no reason
and your voice scratches its way out of your esophagus;
like an old CD, skipping, and stopping at certain intervals.
Overcast, the sky is an apathetic shade of dolphin grey
The pressure of the inevitable rain, pressing;
holding you with the weight of the sun hidden behind.
Today is one of those days
when you cannot drag yourself out of sleep,
even though you’ve slept for a day and a quarter.
A day where you don’t want to eat,
but you’re still shaking from the hunger
and coffee and cigarettes are all that will do the trick.
Sitting on the pavement, damp and wet.
It hasn’t rained yet but we still never forget
the way the cold feels against our jeans;
smoking cigarette butts, discarded dreams.
With old LCD screens out scratched phones shine
signifying how broken our view of the world may be-
but, clearly, we still see.
As we take random pills we found and pretend we are high-
we drink cheap liquor and curse at the sky.
Sitting on the curb, in the literal gutter,
Loitering’s a constant when you have nowhere to go.
Walking for hours
in rain, heat or snow,
our lives in a bag,
wearing the same clothes.
Showering in a gas station sink,
shoplifting to eat,
the parks were our bed
the bleachers our dining rooms.
The shelter kicked us out for fighting that old guy
and the soup kitchens didn’t feed us
because we didn’t have the proper paperwork.
Our skin is grey and pale as the sky,
our eyes are full of light
as our brain starts to die;
but we are free,
and we fly-
“wild birds.”
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 6:24 PM UTC
Today is one of those days
when your throat is sore for no reason
and your voice scratches its way out of your esophagus;
like an old CD, skipping, and stopping at certain intervals.
Overcast, the sky is an apathetic shade of dolphin grey
The pressure of the inevitable rain, pressing;
holding you with the weight of the sun hidden behind.
Today is one of those days
when you cannot drag yourself out of sleep,
even though you’ve slept for a day and a quarter.
A day where you don’t want to eat,
but you’re still shaking from the hunger
and coffee and cigarettes are all that will do the trick.
Sitting on the pavement, damp and wet.
It hasn’t rained yet but we still never forget
the way the cold feels against our jeans;
smoking cigarette butts, discarded dreams.
With old LCD screens out scratched phones shine
signifying how broken our view of the world may be-
but, clearly, we still see.
As we take random pills we found and pretend we are high-
we drink cheap liquor and curse at the sky.
Sitting on the curb, in the literal gutter,
Loitering’s a constant when you have nowhere to go.
Walking for hours
in rain, heat or snow,
our lives in a bag,
wearing the same clothes.
Showering in a gas station sink,
shoplifting to eat,
the parks were our bed
the bleachers our dining rooms.
The shelter kicked us out for fighting that old guy
and the soup kitchens didn’t feed us
because we didn’t have the proper paperwork.
Our skin is grey and pale as the sky,
our eyes are full of light
as our brain starts to die;
but we are free,
and we fly-
“wild birds.”
