Sta.sh
Here we are- barricaded in the broken down bric-a-brac store,
With gloomy eyes and examples of perfect abrasiveness,
There they all stand- bulging stomachs and bulging pockets,
Heavy from the work load, of another stealing day.
That day-like today- with snowy tendrils and monster, limb-gnawing winds,
With the grotesque kitten-like mewling gurgling sounds,
That often erupt from a stomach, now empty,
It’s contents of underage drinking and toffee cake now on the floor.
And here- its parents, wailing in some corner of the room,
One a beaten, broke woman, spewing acid as she sings,
The other a man, his fists in balls and his bruises shown,
Like medals across his face.
It is days like these, these snowy days,
That I’ve learnt to hate the most.
