Leaving it behind seemed good to me,
like a long shower after a holiday
or paying a debt left standing
but I soon saw a little reality
that I had left something precious
an edge, a rotting madness
stealing, begging, sleeping outside
lost kids left to survive
break up change, turn it to drink
I don’t miss stealing to eat
but I went from pointy-elbowed survival
to straight and narrow sensible
a voice in my mouth that’s foreign
and lost kids want nothing with me



Filed under Poetry

4 responses to “38.

  1. Well done. Melancholy and raw.

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