Rusted tins and loaded bins
I lie here shrieking to the wind
I'm a pile, a mess, a broken coward,
looking at passers by
they move fast like robots
controlled by wealth
as I use stealth to hide
from what could be a sinister confrontation.
I have no light in my heart
there is no flash in my eyes
no sparkle to enlighten a lover
no creativity in my rugged head any more
I might jump off the highest mountain
to feel a buzz and to die.
The frequent swerve
they all ignore me
with their coffee breath
and their cigarette hands
this world isn't wholesome any more
it's a cubical of greed and sexual menaces.
Today I made a truce with myself
under a ragged piece of a sleeping bag
counting loose change
patting the concrete to swallow me up
to spit me out into the arms of someone
who might care enough to battle with me.
That truce is failing
I am soaked in stale beer
it seeped through the holes in my shirt
I stink and I'm on the brink.