The Hell I Call Home
All alone here I sit, in this hell I call home.
With no motivation to silence these moans.
There's junkies in the next room, and tweekers below,
outside on the street, a whore with no one to blow.
There's a crackhead with a pit-bull, and a toddler in tow
she's looking to score, but the gangster says "no".
She curses and shouts as she heads down skid row, to
the mark on the Drew, who's been known to hold blow.
Down the staircase I'm winding out and onto the street
with Cecillia as my anchor, we step to the beat.
I stagger or swagger,
it depends who I meet.
I'm off to see Mary, and the kids on King street.
When I get there it's early and the kids are asleep.
Their chemical consumption has altered their beat.
The street is deserted and I feel like a creep.
Ya, I'm fitting right in, in this hell I call home.
So I'm off to the station, with a head that can't think.
I curse the men with the money, and the ice in their drinks.
And the ones who reign judgment? I don't care what they think.
All I need is my escape from this hell I call home.
I arrive at the station and my mans at the booth.
I approach him and ask with the slang that is couth.
He fixes me up and I get high as the roof.
Another lost Thursday morning, in this hell I call home.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment