It could be you:

Emptying hands
search brickwork
for the blood of these
consumerist streets.

This town is pebble-dashed
with lies of promise,
bookies thriving on
children's food
with whispers of a code
to be cracked
and pour out
coin solutions.

It could be me:

No choice went into forging
the memories of abuse
that desperate lips
try to suffocate with smoke
from a thousand fully laden gauzes.

That poison hardens arteries
and blocks tear ducts.
The survival mechanism
of bolting emotions
inside fallout shelter skull
is slowly decomposing the mind beneath,
which was nurtured by
bloody knuckles and angry lust.
So don't be so surprised that it’s all suppressed.

It could be me, you, anyone:

Every tragic death thrust upon juvenile memories,
the guilt and anger of every heartbreak,
all leaves open wounds
and bleeding people without loving medicine of embrace
can only douse the traumas in numbing spirits.

Without the selfless and organic structure of family
fulfilling what our Father intended;
that loving kindness of washing feet.
Without the ever available ears of friends.
And most indispensably;
without the truth of the gospel
that penetrates so deeply
it's healing is dependant on nothing else,
without such beautiful strength
breathed from external sources
those twisted pneumatic-grip fingers
of post traumatic stress
could drag anyone from belonging
to the bottle,
in trying to drown reminiscence
and stay unaware of everything.

It could be you...

Written March 2013 for the 23rd birthday celebration of the Watford New Hope Trust (the homeless charity I am privileged to work for) on 23/03/13. The event was entitled 'Homelessness: It's not always who you think'. The poem explores how it is sometimes merely a coincidence of privilege that keeps someone from homelessness and/or turning to addiction. 


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