- Non-Erotic Poetry
- City Streets Are Forgetful Places
Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.
You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.
Click hereWhat do you think of,
When you think of the city?
Bright lights, lots of cars,
Everybody busy?
Tall skyscrapers,
And lots of traffic?
People moving freely,
And sometimes becoming manic.
Next time you think of the city,
Try and spare a thought for me.
A single, solitary, lonely being,
Lost in something where seeing is believing.
Surrounded by people,
Yet always alone.
With no particular address,
This whole city is my home.
I walk amongst you,
Women and men.
Nobody knows me,
I've never had a friend.
Except for this needle,
Spoon, powder and lighter.
They're the only things I know,
That can help get me higher.
Way above the rat race,
Above this congregation of lost souls.
This substance gives me meaning,
It numbs the pain in my soul.
This soft white powder,
Melting in the spoon.
My skin is crawling,
The hit is coming soon.
It streams through my veins,
And makes my head spin.
This must be a good batch,
I'm as light as the wind.
With no home to go to,
And no food to eat.
I find somewhere to rest,
And nurse the blisters on my feet.
People walk past me at night,
Sometimes they stop and they stare.
Then they continue on to their lives,
Because for me they could never care.
What do you think of,
When you think of the city?
Have you ever thought of me?
Would you ever take pity?
As I lay in the glow of a street light,
With a needle in my arm.
There's only one wish I have tonight,
I wish I was warm.
The morning comes,
And with it the sun.
My body is blue and cold as a crowd gathers,
Now the fuss has begun.
People that I never knew,
Actually shed a tear.
For some this is the worst that's happened,
All year.
As they remove my limp and lifeless form,
Somebody starts to cry.
Somewhere in the glow of the dawn.
It doesn't last long as they start to move away,
Slowly forgetting what they saw that day.
A lonely child,
So cold and blue,
Laying in the street,
Covered in the morning dew.
No parents, no home,
Shamelessly alone.
Neglected by all,
Except the man with the bag of white powder.
By: Heath G. Schofield
- COMMENTS
LeBrozabout 17 years agoPretty strong stuff. Could have huge impact with a bit of tightening, cutting at least 3-4 stanzas. Don't let it lie at this single piece.
Anonymousalmost 18 years agoa potentially great poem, would recommend that you go through the poem with a comb, cutting out anything that detracts from the picture you're trying to paint. Get rid of the cliches you've put in such as 'seeing is believing' and tighten your imagery, perhaps adding more specific details would help the reader.
