Losers, boozers, drug addicts,
lunatics and trash;
in my doorway is where they crash.
The flotsam and jetsam,
our society’s throwaway people ;
no cash with which to buy,
our solution is for them
to shut up and die.
Not all would be pleasant people
even in improved circumstance
because they can’t sing the song
and don’t know the dance.
Some were lost at their conception,
already doomed beyond redemption.
Some have the trick of their mother’s habits
ain’t strange how the unfit
breed like rabbits.
Others come out from behind the mask
of families so called normal
their severe dysfunction revealed at last.
Some seek to change their bleak reality
blissed out on drugs in totality
but now with a life mission made to fit every
thing in their lives flushed
down the toilet,
fully focused on the next hit.
Do I have the time to hear every sad story?
I’m curious and that is a worry.
Does my compassion have a limit;
am I really helping or just treating
gapping wounds with band aids?
Like yelling for someone to “look out
” when you know the train wreck is inevitable.
At what point
do they cease to be people and become trash
subject to ends mean, anonymous and terrible?
Or are we only voyeuristic witnesses to the crash
, watching the parade of
losers, boozers, drug addicts, lunatics and trash?
©Copyright January 7, 2006 by John-Ward Leighton