Abandoned Druggies House - Poem by celia hinojosa
He didn’t care about the world outside his, says the smudged dirty brown windows upstairs in his room;
He was a very thin and bony man, says the cold empty fridge in the kitchen that contains rotten mold;
A very angry and furious human being too, says the rock posters on his bedroom floor where the floors have collected dust over the years because of the neglect of hygiene;
But he always somehow saw something in me, says the darkness of the living room, the windows nailed shut letting no sunlight in.
His poor parents paid for his poison and his rent, says the sad two story house that they never cared to knock down;
He was insane how he screamed and shout from the top of his lungs up to me to hear, says the empty never used attic filled with spider webs and rats;
He was in college but didn’t get to finish because he was a fool, says the outdated assignments on the floor with 100’s and 90’s written in pen;
He could’ve made it if he didn’t have the wrong friends and at the time was manically depressed, says the window up on the ceiling that recorded and engraved memories of they’re illegal actions in his glass mind.
They’re were many people around but never any permanent half alive corpses that stayed but him, says the living room walls scratched up and beaten with writing on it;
Middle schoolers use to brake in the back door when he made his trips, thinking it was cool, says the broken door with holes and a broken lock;
White poisonous powder turned yellow and brown in me, says the ugly sliver spoons that were overused;
The people’s nights were cold, says the old worn out and ripped sweaters and blankets on the cold creaking floor;
I feel all alone now, says the insides of that hollow broken down home all alone and no one around.
They still thought they were beautiful no matter how thin they were or how many scars they had, says the shattered dirty mirror in that old bathroom that looked close to a motel’s;
Nothing was ever right, says the druggies house on that empty long road that hasn’t been used in years;
The spoons and needles all around say that it wasn’t a safe environment to be in or to stay at;
I tried to warn them that they were coming, says the soundless doorbell and old long wooden door;
It was too late to run and it’s not like they had the strength to, says the back door that saw those bodies run to him that day.
The article of clothing and meaningless but priceless belongings that were left behind says they were forced out of their world by men in uniforms who drove in black and white cars with red and blue lights;
No one knows of they’re psychotic and paranoiac episodes and dangerous imagination, says the worn out floors and the walls that use to watch them;
And the windows from the second floor looked outside at the cop cars, says that their friends, the half alive corpses, were always doing wrong and never doing right.
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