Animal

living on the street

holding in the pain

trying to dodge the constant boredom,

the loneliness and the rain

living in a sleeping bag

one eye open all the time

pretending you are truly free

and that all of this is fine

living on a cardboard box

folded thrice to ward the cold

every single scrap of blanket

is worth its weight in gold

living like a lack of direction

swiping small change out of cars

shoplifting chocolate bars

sleeping under stairs and stars

living like a filthy tip rat

a grimy unwashed mess

living like a crime statistic

that hasn't happened yet

living in a soup kitchen line

the fare is bland, filling and crude

maybe there's a sweet cake left

if not soup is still good food

living in the Centrelink queue

trying to scratch up some extra cash

resorting to petty obsequious means

before doing something rash

living so close to all that life

with no connection no active part

a spectre of spent poor pale choices

another soul lost in the dark

living like a fucking ghost

shrouded in despair

existing in a nether world

neither here nor there

living between sad tinged anecdotes

none of them are nice or pretty

tales of empty hunger, impotent rage

and the dark parts of this city

there is no living on these edges

its just lost lives on the streets

some are scheming most are dreaming

of a real bed made with sheets