New Poem!

Living in filth,
too feral for rats n mice,
he's scabbed and scared,
and itching from lice,
it's all because he,
can't stop smoking the ice.
Carries a stench of death,
he's wasting his life.
Lost in the drama, drugs, fights, strife,
and dreams back to the days,
that were shared with friends,
and his life felt nice.
The pain, cuts like the sharpest knife.
Doesn't want to be alive,
grabs a light, smokes another pipe,
one last escape on his final night.
He's lost the fight,
another junkie solider falls before daylight.
Behind, he's left three kids and a wife,
three sons without a father.
One broken mum, who suffers her sons anger,
she can't stop them; chasing danger;
attacking strangers; killing state rangers;
fucking dirty hoe bangers;
they told her not to fall in love with that looser.

She made her own trap,
when she started chasing that rat,
she could have done better,
her parents had spoiled her, little brat.
After lust she ran away,
leaving, nothing and no thanks,
but a selfish letter.
The stupid little bitch thought she was smarter,
she should have listened to her mother,
so her sons could still have a father.
She didn't believe,
what they could all see,
even since she's started hiding bruises under long sleeves,
skirts down past her knees.
So just for some peace,
she lets him smoke some relief,
let the children sleep,
get through the night, without him making her bleed,
let him have his kicks,
he won't hit the kids,
he might even give us a hug and a kiss.
And for a short while,
pretend all is well, and life is bliss,
until he falls from his high,
and stops to smile,
shares his anger again for a while.
Till he gets hold of her stash,
their only cash,
and takes off into the night,
one less fight to fight.

Born into a childhood that left them scared,
their father...violent...a real psychopath,
or just a wasted paranoid schizo, and his messed up wrath,
a lifetime of emotional pain and panic,
a traumatic void left, terrified and manic.
Humiliated and too scared to be the victim's,
they inflict their pain,
on their mother, weaklings and other easy pickings.
The tears the secretly shed,
the times the cowered with lowered head's,
or hid under their bed's,
all the nights they wet their bed's,
personal shames they can't,
put in a grave along with,
their dead junkie father, and the mess he made.
time to stand up, act up and be brave
Struggling in the real world,
trying to make end meet end,
love her, but won't live like her,
break the trend,
these heavy days are a heaven send,
we are better, stronger men,
and can't be stopped by the old man's dead end.



December 2011
Kerry Samuel