How do you explain what its like to live on the streets? To live
with no home, no place to lay your head at night, no cupboards to hold your
food?
A homeless addict spends the hours walking the streets –
searching for an answer to what their life has become. Along the way we are
misunderstood, told we are bad when we know we are good, told that we shouldn’t
when we know that we should.
We only have ourselves to rely on – and most times we know that
isn’t good enough. We have no alternate experience to compare our life to. So we
continue…
Sleep does not come easily – we walk for days on end, not taking
in nourishment or water. We become dehydrated which contributes to our paranoia.
When we finally fall – exhausted – and lay our heads where we land –it is a
sleep of the dead. Open to the elements, to the dangers of the predators on the
street – when we awaken we are thankful to still have our shoes on our feet (if
we are lucky).
Our diet consists of sugar and starch. Cakes, donuts and muffins
handed out by the charities. Once a week, if we are lucky to get there in time,
we get a bowl of chilli with a bun. Most often we miss the
line.
Trust is a word we do not use. This is the street – to trust is
to die. Those who are sent to help us only hurt us. They take us to a cold room
to detox alone. The pain comes – with no relief. Sleep evades us –and we cry out
in fear. The streets are better to us than this dark empty room. On the streets
we have our existence – here it is nothing. We will die. Alone. Cold. In
pain.
We do not know any other way of living. The shame burns deep –
we cannot look at you – our eyes stare at the ground. We are nothing. We do not
want to be anything – that would mean admitting that right now we are a
failure.
The drugs keep us alive – keep our feet moving – and our minds
from thinking and remembering. We are the walking undead – down on the streets –
with body bags at our feet. The plastic drug wrappers stuck to your shoes – as
we stumble down alleys lined with tears.
There is no daytime on the street – there is no night. There is
only grey. Shades of grey melt into our minds – as we cross from past to future
– all in the same breath. Time has no meaning – there is only the
high.
with no home, no place to lay your head at night, no cupboards to hold your
food?
A homeless addict spends the hours walking the streets –
searching for an answer to what their life has become. Along the way we are
misunderstood, told we are bad when we know we are good, told that we shouldn’t
when we know that we should.
We only have ourselves to rely on – and most times we know that
isn’t good enough. We have no alternate experience to compare our life to. So we
continue…
Sleep does not come easily – we walk for days on end, not taking
in nourishment or water. We become dehydrated which contributes to our paranoia.
When we finally fall – exhausted – and lay our heads where we land –it is a
sleep of the dead. Open to the elements, to the dangers of the predators on the
street – when we awaken we are thankful to still have our shoes on our feet (if
we are lucky).
Our diet consists of sugar and starch. Cakes, donuts and muffins
handed out by the charities. Once a week, if we are lucky to get there in time,
we get a bowl of chilli with a bun. Most often we miss the
line.
Trust is a word we do not use. This is the street – to trust is
to die. Those who are sent to help us only hurt us. They take us to a cold room
to detox alone. The pain comes – with no relief. Sleep evades us –and we cry out
in fear. The streets are better to us than this dark empty room. On the streets
we have our existence – here it is nothing. We will die. Alone. Cold. In
pain.
We do not know any other way of living. The shame burns deep –
we cannot look at you – our eyes stare at the ground. We are nothing. We do not
want to be anything – that would mean admitting that right now we are a
failure.
The drugs keep us alive – keep our feet moving – and our minds
from thinking and remembering. We are the walking undead – down on the streets –
with body bags at our feet. The plastic drug wrappers stuck to your shoes – as
we stumble down alleys lined with tears.
There is no daytime on the street – there is no night. There is
only grey. Shades of grey melt into our minds – as we cross from past to future
– all in the same breath. Time has no meaning – there is only the
high.