Number 32 NG18

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
I moved from Dublin to a small market town in the midlands in the uk, I became homeless and had to take a flat offered by the local authority. This is the story of the days spent behind a door listening to the activities of heroin dealers on the communal stairs and how it felt being stranded there.
The deal lived directly across the landing from me and it was a very painful time watching people destroying themselves.

Submitted: January 06, 2007

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 06, 2007



No... 32....NG18..

The pain goes deep into the ribs,

It irritates more than truly hurts,

Always in denial, as nothing ever hurts now.

She waits in limbo numb with the fear that has taken over,

No gear! No gear! NON.

Doors bang constantly, which echo the voice, frame the footsteps.

The voices whisper in the doorway

" We need more pain, We need to inject the next poison into our veins"

Kill life Kill life Kill. 

Smell of grim lives on the stairs, pathways to hell.

Murky Strangers linger while the dragon courses through their wiry frames.

Down stairs, the entrance to this hell the main doors buzz,

sticky finger marks the only reminder of these abusers, these users.

She; the owner of these sites has little, small, four feet nine inches.

It had been said that good things come in little packages. 

It must have been used up quickly, 

 the tracks in her body showing where life used to be,

 for that is all there is left tacks to death. 

The bags by the door full and smelly, the bags under her eyes

black and empty, and face death everyday.

No hope for Hungry Ghosts.....

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