Ragged Clothes. Need sewn. I haven’t a home.
Dark night. No sight. I cower in fright.
Confused. Misused. A life of Abuse.
Sought help. Refused. Beaten and Bruised.
Starvation. Malnutrition. I have no real food.
Recession. Deep Depression. A sorrowful mood.
Cold rain. Disdain. Nowhere to retreat.
My pain. In vain. No shoes on my feet.
Angry people. Stare at me. They see me as dead.
Desparation. Condemnation. I only want bread.
Apprehension. Foreboding. Danger is near.
Exposure. No closure. I tremble in Fear.
I’m freezing. They’re teasing. They punch me and kick.
They leave. I grieve. Wish death would come quick.
—Brian Crandall
© 2015, poem, Brian Crandall, All rights reserved; photo courtesy of Peter Griffin, Public Domain Pictures.net
This poem reads like “performance” on the page—alive with rhythm and energy, full of emotion (hurt, anger, defiance), telling truth outright.
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Thank You Michael. Considering your life experiences and ability to write so well, your perspective means a lot to me. I don’t know why I could not see these comments before. I was getting notifications that there were comments, but I could not see any of them until just recently.
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