It’s
said we all have a purpose in life,
That we
all have choices,
Killed
though by paranoid voices.
You
waste away and ignore your uniqueness,
Subjected
to the hard substances.
Daily…Night
in and out,
Life
appears to wither away, unaware of the filth of their “home”.
Image
as vivid as a clear sky.
Three
people nestled in a rat’s corner,
Around,
walling them are smears of something black…
On the
right, on a pathetic imitation of a single “bed”, sprawled and coiled, two more
stiff bodies lay.
Is that
all there is to it,
A
horrid, small room. In a dilapitated building with smashed walls and a chocking
stench?
All I
get are eyes. Junkie eyes.
Eyes
that do not know where or when their next fix will be.
A soul
living behind these eyes has long died.
One…appeared
to have been untouched by water and soap since birth.
Little
popcorn like hair screamed filth from the million pieces of dirt in it.
Sitting
and I guess soaking the sun, his clothes’
colours are now unrecognisable, one shoe with no sole.
Yet he
sits…waiting for the next fix.
I feel
out-of-place yet comfortable,
Surrounded
by the grip of addicts,
They’ve
rotted and live for yet another fix…
Dirty
thick fingers scooping their drug equipment’s, for another fix.
Another…
had a chilled demeanour and appeared composed.
Squashed
in a dried-up wax corner,
Smokes
and inhales…sit back and stares into nothing, rests his head on the stained
brick-wall.
Is that
it? Really has life been so cruel?
How do
you get to this point? When did it get so bad?
Crystal
clear are the bits of brown plastics strewn on the messy floor.
A sick
display of all their previous hits.
Again…
they zone out into nothing.
I
loudly think: “These people are human beings!”
Homeless
and isolated from reality.
They
know too well of struggles,
They
know too much about addictions.
That
for them it’s a sad existence.
A
blessing is probably something they forgot of,
A good
deed is foreign to their abandoned hearts.
Out-look
was torn apart,
Ripped to
shreds from the sight of their daily routine…cravings visible in their sickly
faces.
Can’t
fathom all that I saw. It’s messed up, a pinch of how others live. How they
survive.
Daily
slaves to insane poverty, do they dream, vision happiness.
Stamped,
burned on my memory’s wall.
The
stench of hopelessness.
Nothing
appears better or spacious for change.
They
toss and wither away in what has turned out as “life” for them.
Their
freedom has gone up in the smoke that engulfs their so-called room.
Heavy
gloom. Seems like it’s all not new.
A foreign
and shocking view. Yet it’s what they relish in and spend their limitless time
seeing…doing.
Are
they the worst out there?
Has
anyone offered them bread, a better life, love?
Do
their taste-buds recognise the drug only?
Have
their lungs collapsed and only appreciate their drug?
Here we
are. Sitting in cosy surroundings.
Living
with hill-high complaints, rebelling.
There
they are. Engulfed in a life of filth. Suffocating in their matchbox home and
given up on a better chance at life. Definitely rough. Too rough.
As I
sit there…taking in this disturbing world. I realise I am the only girl in this
bustle of chilling beggars, dealers and possible thieves and hobos…obeying
their demons to rust and rot away because of their addiction.
An
image never to be forgotten. EVER. Can still see their “yard” of smelly strange
heaps of rubbish, possibly mixed with faeces and all sorts of garbage.
Little
drug wrappers are lifted off the ground by a random breeze…
At that
time, a thought passes.
“Isn’t
that a poor being sleeping in the corner of the room, getting tortured by the
dusty breeze?”
I’m
left with a scarred memory, mind.
A lot
of questions roam and wonder if any of us are ever satisfied, thankful…
Grateful
for all things we’d like to think we own.
Many
can’t imagine such a life,
So busy
concerned with nothing, clearly side-lining their blessings.
Witnessing
the pits of filth called “My Home”. It’s as if they say “Welcome and relax.
Just let me have a fix while you make yourself comfortable. Don’t mind the
smell of old urine and worn out shoes, feel at home.”
A
constant rewind and play of the same sick routine of getting a fix, wandering
around like zombies gathering in aimless conversations and fixing up another
hit.
Smother
in the gross air and breathe in the off-smell piercing the nostrils.
Somehow…I
get used to it. The filth that surrounds me.
We
complain of zero yet these hobos have zero but keep killing themselves with the
injustice they’ve landed in. The grip of their demons.
This is
one day I will not change nor take back. It’s gripped me tightly.
Time to
leave. They wave, I wave, throwing them a sad smile. And…without wasting a
minute, they go back to gather again for yet another fix.
26 July 2010
