"shitsville" poems
One way or another, the streets would be paved with gold.
It was a matter of time, sure. But more importantly,
it was a matter who the **** would help a town like this.
Shitsville, New Jersey: a faecal suburb.
Years of dead and still rotting potential
with an ugly face,
the eyes of a hawk and a sense
of remorse an executioner would be proud of.
The day I see a kid sleeping as sound as they should,
I'll drop to my knees, pull my resentful fist
out of God's *** and
kiss it for forgiveness.
But the streets are ****** now.
And the janitors have drugs and hookers,
not mops and brooms.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 5:01 PM UTC
My coffee is tepid and so is the sky.
The clouds snap shadows to the floor
and demonize the sleeping Bum's silhouette.
It's funny,
you can't help but feel that
life would be simpler eating
twisted crap out of dumpsters.
But what those ******* Bums don't know
is that they are missing out
on some of the best things in life;
money, self-respect.
But then again
I don't see any of those drugpushers
give a **** about self-respect. And
your money is as valuable as
the **** you want to poison yourself with.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 5:01 PM UTC
My spoon tinkles
and finds sanctity in the mug.
I toss a dollar to the waitress
and smile at her on my way out.
Nothing.
Nothing but the blank face
I always get from that *****
I don't know why I bother
going back to that place.
As I leave, I hurt a little
and realise that
it's the only home I have.
What a ******* sorry state of affairs.
I leave the diner and turn up my collar.
The rain spots my glasses
but I'm not sure if I care.
**** could be a lot worse.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 5:01 PM UTC