Anyone

It could be you:

Emptying hands
search brickwork
for the blood of these
consumerist streets.

This town is pebble-dashed

with lies of promise,

bookies thriving on

children's food

with whispers of a code

to be cracked

and pour out

coin solutions.

It could be me:

No choice went into forging

the memories of abuse

that desperate lips

try to suffocate with smoke

from a thousand fully laden gauzes.

That poison hardens arteries

and blocks tear ducts.

The survival mechanism

of bolting emotions

inside fallout shelter skull

is slowly decomposing the mind beneath,

which was nurtured by

bloody knuckles and angry lust.

So don't be so surprised that it’s all suppressed.

It could be me, you, anyone:

Every tragic death thrust upon juvenile memories,

the guilt and anger of every heartbreak,

all leaves open wounds

and bleeding people without loving medicine of embrace

can only douse the traumas in numbing spirits.

Without the selfless and organic structure of family

fulfilling what our Father intended;

that loving kindness of washing feet.

Without the ever available ears of friends.

And most indispensably;

without the truth of the gospel

that penetrates so deeply

it's healing is dependant on nothing else,

without such beautiful strength

breathed from external sources

those twisted pneumatic-grip fingers

of post traumatic stress

could drag anyone from belonging

to the bottle,

in trying to drown reminiscence

and stay unaware of everything.

It could be you...

Written March 2013 for the 23rd birthday celebration of the Watford New Hope Trust (the homeless charity I am privileged to work for) on 23/03/13. The event was entitled 'Homelessness: It's not always who you think'. The poem explores how it is sometimes merely a coincidence of privilege that keeps someone from homelessness and/or turning to addiction.