I was poor as a piss bucket,
and my brain was a gathering
of bedbugs smoking opium, and
talking about man's search for
meaning.
Sobriety was a fantasy back then,
an impossibility, like hula-hooping
with the rings of Saturn.
Starving in Pennsylvania.
Bats roosted in my heart,
and I don't know to this
day how I survived.
I was sold as a puppet to
Babylon.
Outside my window
vicious dogs bit at the cat's
throats, and cops killed
us all.
And now, every exhale is
a prayer.
Thank you, Father.
The water is fine, and
women and wine aren't
idols anymore.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 6th, 2025 13:36
- Comment from author about the poem: My latest book, Sleep Always Calls, is now available on Amazon.com. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F7FS5DQB?ref=ppx_yo2ov_dt_b_fed_asin_title
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 58
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Licence, RSM0812
Offline)
Comments4
More great images that give the impression of poverty, grit, grime and even slime. Another good read
Thank you so much.
I read the title and though, shit Thomas knows where I live. 🤣 Eastern PA is where I live. That aside, well done, Thomas. The poem delivered. I love the grittiness and rawness of this. 🌹👏
Thank you so much.
You are most welcome, my friend!
A lovely honest, raw write from the heart and experience, enjoyed the read
Thank you.
You are very welcome
I especially like the analogy of hula hooping with the rings of Saturn. Great price.
ty
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