Poem: London, Whitechapel, 1888

-

Chilled to the bone 
fog heavy in the streets 
why would one 
go for a little stroll 
and invite terror 
into their lives?
It is easy to judge
the unfortunate
who might not 
have a choice.
A livelihood
to fund survival
A house made
of cobblestone streets.
No one expects it 
to happen to them 
and it makes 
a sensational story 
for others.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Poem: No Longer Needed

-
That sinking realization when you understand that they don't need you anymore They're outgrown you they can survive without you When it is so gradual that it sneaks up on you but the inevitable gut punch is that while you become aware they still act the same but their actions confirm it every hour or every day.
Read more

Poem: Hyperfixation

-
My mind cannot let go of what went before turning every stone looking from every angle worrying it like a dog gnawing on a bone. What should I have said? What should I have done? Could it have ended differently? How will things change? What will happen now? Pore through every detail talk about it at every turn until the sympathetic smiles become strained their amusement becomes fake. I know I should stop let bygones be bygones fade into the past but I see it everywhere I turn the lost chances mock me. One day my thoughts latch onto some other subject where I cannot stop thinking and obsessing again the roller coaster starts once more.
Read more

Poem: The Daily Pendulum

-
Mood swings like a pendulum The highest highs the lowest lows goes from one to the other in a fraction of a second wondering what face and what tone will the day bring when the sun rises until the moon sets always on high alert trying to mitigate damage this is no way to live with every noise making you jump and your empathy burnt out.
Read more