Weeds wrapped around the rusty trolley
rain soaked receipt folds itself upon the grill.
A mini mole hill of brain draining empty beer cans
shadow the junkies discarded needles.
A carnage has happened here
a grave of chicken bones devoured
of all chrispy specially seasoned flesh.
A babies shoe bursting with insects
they will never grow to big for it.
A thousand fag buts smoked down to the filter
to many worries to little time.
The gardens on T.V never look like this
they thrive with life.
Flowers dance in the pure air.
Grass so green it looks alien.
I am constantly being told to cut the grass
of which all the citys shit lay upon.
I have chosen not to rather let the weeds
grow sky high and hide what I cannot face.
What a great way of describing this Vincent! An interesting look at a growing problem. I know many yards that are always in need of cutting and the city does complain to them........this makes me wonder if they have their own reasons for not cutting it. Great work! Sincerely, Mary
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
imaginative. you seem to be inspired by almost anything.