Our Forgotten Our Homeless
Trash Full of Worth
Littered with the regret that I could become
reduced to a disposable stain on society's skirt.
kicked aside with the stench which alludes to my past,
crumbled by my own hand, cripple by my own delusions of grandeur,
glimpses of myself when I was suitable,
with dignity to master the art of being a perfect disaster.
The unforgiving wrinkles of my skin delivering lines of poetry against
an unwilling story weathered by the storms that have no end,
of judgement despite one bad decision turns into a mountain
of rubbish, disguised as gold; my goal turned in to self-pity
with a form of medication that steals my teeth and rotted my face
but life is now a haze of a bearable state;
Too proud to lift my sign of, "WILL WORK FOR FOOD"
I rather die than see the inside of your nostril as you,
scrap my last ounce of self-esteem as you toss me coins
or rather thorns, to my already bruised pride,
I try to hide as tears scream loudly, a trail of my despair.
Though sheltered, I'm not sheltered with my child
ripped from the warmth of her bed, so she doesn't see
fist hitting walls, hitting doors, breaking bones, blooded flesh,
she sees the harsh reality of protection in a space called safe.
I looked for hope once, life dangled it in front of me as if it could be obtained,
as I reached I stumbled on the shadowy surface, I now call home
it welcomes me with open arms this hard surface cold and unforgiving.
I struggle to erase the obituary of my life but after all is erased there is still me.
Bless you all.... Thanks for reading
I started a nonprofit this year call "Restoration Hope". My goal is to not only provide families and/or individuals a bed, food, shelter, but a new start.
We can't erase the past, the failures, the pain but it can be sculpted into something that is not dragging our residences back into the cycle of homelessness, abuse, and addiction.
The hemorrhaging of mistakes can be heal, while instilling hope, giving support, counsel and through structure.
This poems just embodies some of the stories I've heard speaking with people in my own community. These beautiful souls that breath life into this unforgiving world was/is somebody's child, brother, sister, and family.
If it wasn't for the grace of God this very well could have been my circumstances and my children and I fled from an abusive situation.
© 2018 Leslie Robertson