Homeless Poem. At A Loss For The Title.

As I'm walking on,
the homeless man approaches,
his twisted toothless smile
only serves to sadden me.

He speaks his senseless madness,
hoping I find it wise.
He speaks of Manson and the past he lived,
grin increasing with tears that never fall.

His nose is lined with breaks,
no different with his face.
His white balding hair lays down to his black beard,
and with the way he coughs, I know he hasn't long.

But his eyes, they're still fierce!
Those blue orbs burn with hatred, madness and with hope,
I want to pull this man up from his knees,
yet I'd kill him if he touched the children that we pass.

We both know he's beaten,
I know he prays for death,
as we ignore the groups ignoring us,
I wonder when his spirit really died.

Was it when Uncle Sam clasped him on the back,
warmth in one hand, dagger right behind,
hugged him, stabbed him, bled him dry,
then left the mess for us to clean?

Was it when his mother had him,
Gabriel lookin' on?
Was it the Good Lord's bad decissions
that led this dead man to his Doom?

I have nothing but pity,
the fear's just a trick that my mind plays.
How could I fear his haggard broken man,
when he only scares himself?

by Mr. Monster

Comments (1)

Hello, I have a poem named Without a Home. Your poem is very (sad to say) the truth but Our Lord does not make mistakes. We make them. War devours! This I truely have ascertained through the years and find it recalcitrant. This poem is sad and directs itself towards menial servants of all societies. best regards, Michele Great poem...