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

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


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