Common Ailment

A Common Ailment

Eleven o´clock in the forenoon I had been to my 
doctor and was going into the nearest cafe for
a coffee, but soon the city dwellers filled the place 
with the smell of unmade beds, uncombed hair
and the despair of lonely nights. The fresh bun I was
 eating absorbed it all and I could not eat it.
Many people live in cold rooms, have no gas and
kitchens are full dirty pots and pans.

Apathy sets in personal hygiene suffers, why bother?
Sleeping in the same beddings for weeks, socks and
underwear grimy and soiled, which results in fatigue
of the mind . Self-esteem is replaced by self-loathing, 
unless someone speaks up or bangs pot lids together
their life will be short, empty of pleasure and light.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2013

Poem

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Collins Avatar
December 19, 2013 at 10:25 AM
Desperate. The clanging of pot lids could cause heart failure among the morning after crowd. Even the bun stales in the midst of it all.
Hansen Avatar
December 30, 2013 at 1:25 PM
a moment when my dusgust of humanity takes over
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