"This Road." by Steven Michael Pape

This Road.
Steven Michael Pape

This road looks grimy and so tired,
Businesses boarded, long since expired,
Broken windows, desperate thiefs,
Screaming babies, poverty, grief.
Patched up tarmac, crushed up cans,
Degradation sits but never stands.
Graffiti that no one can read,
Shops sell cheap booze on which to feed.
Scratch cards and cheap toilet rolls,
A lay on please till i get my dole.
Drunken mouths making violent noise,
A crowd that you should aim to avoid.
Dodgy deals from open car doors,
A small plastic bag on the floor,
Deadly Mamba for unconscious means,
Home grown skunk for pleasant dreams.
And the Charlie mixed with laxatives,
Street level smack on which to fix,
Strong white cider at over eight percent,
Oblivion is yours, for pounds and pence.
Wherever you walk, despair seems to soar,
It sits on shoulders, invades every pore,
A feeling of ageing well before your years,
A lifetime of struggles, lost hope and fears,
Of uncertain futures many sleepless nights,
Violent confrontations, aimless fist fights.
This road i tell you has seen it all,
It speaks from its pavements, from its walls.

Copyright Steven Michael Pape 2018