I Hate This Place Poem by Rachel Aurelien

I hate this place
Blinded in a hidden crack house
Cracks on my floor, cracks are the one I try to ignore
Cracks are structured in my foundation
My roof is my mountain and I sit waiting for my salvation
Darkness hidden as unwelcome spirit
I brush past the cold and I can handle it
With a vest, surrounded by a dozen filthy souls
Feeding me sedatives, confused between highs and lows
I feel the rug beneath my feet
I push the spoon of untested deceit
Pushed and then shoved
My knees left unmarked, somehow my tears leave scars
Over the years, so it's hard to show love
I trip over the black bin bag
I take a look, but I won't blag
I saw the un-level of weakness, and strength
Not in anybody's arm's length
With the dirt in my mind
It creeps like a spider inside
But I reject the thought of me being brainwashed
I see my whole life, curled
In the corner never-ending
My hope sails afloat descending
A dark hole, a rip, a tear, a scratch, it's my tears I can't catch
A space with no ears, but eyes, hardly staring
A tornado, a whirlwind, a storm, tore my thin skin to keep warm
The bag with the dark hole, the rip, the tear, the scratch
I kick it in despise, I kick it in bottled fear
I kick it in revenge, I kick it in hate
I listen to the last voice before closing the smashed door to my fate
Despair, despair, beaten by the pair
A dream of my enemies, my own nightmare
Trials and tribulations
The empty seat of my congregation
The source of my pain, the centre of my anger
Left knocking is my un-forbidding mouth of joy
The feeling leaving to be annoyed
Concealed in that dark hole, that rip, that tear, that scratch
The problems are mine, similar it's a match
To another black bin bag, my heart unwrinkled but it still sags
My world in words, my music in moving images
It helps, but hardly enough
It's the dirt under my fingernails when I wake up
It's the same dirty black bin bag I live in
The sayings get repeated daily
Mirror, mirror on the cracked up wall
Fame, change, prosperity I want it all
Without a soul being sold, without a life removed
Without a hand-out, without a crime
I sit here waiting untiring the thin matted line
I'll kick this bag until I get a reachable sign.