i had found this in a grouping of some old papers in the basement. i had written it a few years ago in my days when i ran away a lot and hung out on the streets with the other gutter punks. it was derived from the inspiration of a crippled homeless man i would see everyday and night in front of the red herring.
His long bony fingers, with rough worn skin. Like segements of a tree branch. the rough bark
cracking and peeling
gripping that filthy tin can.
The clanging of a few mere pennies banging around inside that black hole striking against the cold metal.
He begs for you to share just a tiny Fraction of your wealth.
So that he might have a meal.
[This message has been edited by quietlydying (edited 06-10-2001).]
It's really sad.....gutter punks? Is that what people on the streets are called? Hmm doesn't sound too good. Anyway, you really expressed what was going on in there well and the imagery was very nicely written. Hope to see more.
I was born myself, raised myself, and will continue to be myself. The world will just have to adjust.
I'm in love with my shadow I admire it daily
Excellent job with the descrptions, Jen. I like the last four lines in particular. Tragic circumstances often make the best poetry. Thanks for writing this. I needed to see it, believe it or not, at the moment.