The man, stumbled down the street.
He found a corner, and stood,
begging for change, by the cars.
Dirty looks. Needing a fix.
Unshaven, unclean, homeless.
Covered in rags. A few give.
Soon enough. The liquor store.
People judge. What else has he?
Back outside, a place to sit,
and drink away his sorrows.
He passes out. Police come.
Told to move along. It’s cold.
He slowly stumbles away.
Damn this addiction he has.
Another place he can lay.
Uncomfortable, and hard.
Unconscious. This time, let be.
He wakes up shivering, sick.
At early light, he rises.
Another corner he tries.
Little luck. No hope. Despair.
This is what his life is now.
Addiction, a cruel illness.
No help for him. On his own.
He stays deep in the cycle,
until his end, one dark night.
Drank too much. His peace at last.
But is it what he wanted?
Sadness. Tragedy. A waste.
Poetry
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sad but amazing
This is a wonderful piece of writing showing just how ugly addiction is. I am in recovery but can relate to this in so many different ways. It described me when I was living on the streets.
Thanks for posting.