Alas, the streets are my home.
My stomach aches terribly;
garbage my loving nutrition, anxiously,
I navigate the back alleys.

My clothing is soiled,
tattered and stinking,
and my feet adorn broken shoes.
A puddle of footprints offers me a bath.

Should I complain, despising discomforts?
Must I yell, scream, stamping angrily,
curse the wicked earth.

Who would care to listen?
Would anyone suffer my wretchedness?
Surely, someone desires the life I live.

What person among you relates to me?
Truly, who of you gives a damn!
I know: it is my fault; I failed in some way.
No, the truth is, I failed in many ways.

Beneath the skies I am prostrate,
finding my knees, I beg for hope;
unbelievably, even I dare to dream.
Sometimes, I believe things could get better.

Unfortunately, truth is a greater dreamer:
rudely stealing the comforts of my distress;
never apologetic of the distraught it brings,
tomorrows living mindlessly of today.

Where are my blue horizons,
my seas to shining seas,
my hero mounted upon a mighty steed,
to whom do I cry, when my tears turn away?

Yes, I can see clearly,
my eyes blackened by muddy rain.
Why does suffrage favor me?

My mother is far away,
it is painful imagining her voice,
the song in her laughter.
She is beautiful; I miss her.

I never knew my father;
he never knew love for me.
Somehow, I wronged him.
Perhaps, his is the gift of pain.

Where is reason?
My unwillingness to succeed,
failure ever fighting to find me;
are these my epitaphs?

The windows embrace my reflection.
The image is taunting, it laughs at me.
The man in the glass peers over his shoulder.
Looking away, I pretend not to look back.

Strangely, I know him; he is familiar.
Discomfort fills me with anxiety,
I want to hurt him, destroy him!

Is rage successor to loss?

Cloaked in clarity sorrows giggle;
oh, and yes, I know, I know.
Still, even God is never at fault.

For, and after all,
He permits freedom of will.

“Father, forgive me. For, I am lost,
and I am what I am.”

Copyright © 2013 Delbert H. Rhodes

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