Dark Streets

i remember the streets
they glowed at night
like they were
full of fireflies

the streets full of
people like me whose
dreams were broken
each stare or glance
as harsh as week old coffee

i remember my life and
the lives of those around me,
some were as thin as sheets
of paper others as hard and rough
as the old drunks we would pass

all of us mad and restless...
collapsing at home in darkened rooms
or slumping down in doorways coated
in urine

i remember...
roaming these streets...
drawn to them
every car's tires like a siren's song

walking pass the hustlers and
whore-the high priests and priestesses
of false fulfillment they sold masks
in every form to hide
your pain

i remember finally finding
an all night diner
every patron and worker
were off color...not quite right
like unfinished characters from a colorless
comic book

all of us looking around
wondering when our shifts would
come to an end
forgetting we lived on
streets made of illusions
that are open all night

Driven from their Beds by RP
---------------------------

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, is the claim that’s made these days.

But rarely is it connected, to a father’s rotten ways.

There’s just no viable alternative, for unconditional love.

It beats the bloody hell out of, a life of push and shove.


I’ve listened to the soldiers, as they talked about their war

How they suffered, how they feared, the things that they all saw

About post traumatic stress disorder, and other kinds of things

And how it caused their problems, the return of wedding rings


How it made them feel depressed, and why they beat their wives

Don’t they think that hell exists, in other people’s lives?

You don’t have to be a soldier, to be damaged deep inside

Try being a little child, with no place safe to hide


It’s just as bad to face a man, at least ten times your size

As it is to face an enemy, both can result in your demise

The fear felt is much the same, but when that mans your father

The damage done is there forever, I know which I would rather


I’d like to have my self esteem, even my self expression

Instead the gift my father gave, was his manic bloody depression

What happened to my self love, my confidence, my self image?

I lost it all along the way, in life's desperate, abusive, scrimmage


Post traumatic stress disorder, doesn’t need a war

It can be dumped upon a child, by the slamming of a door

“It’s your father, quickly, jump into your bed

Don’t let him see you’re still awake, or you will end up dead”


No doubt this sick disorder, comes in many different ways

I think it’s blamed by way too many, for lots of things these days

Men need to stop their blaming, need to stand up, and be tall

Instead of bashing loved ones heads, against a bloody wall


The hatred of a father, can drive children from their beds

To where predators lay waiting, to get into their heads

They seem to offer kindness, a replacement for the hate

That lives within the child’s home, not seen outside their gate.


Another mixed up child, so compromised, so confused

Driven from the violence, to be differently abused

The child now has a secret, one it knows will bring it shame

From those events, a child just knows, they’ll never be the same


Life's hardships seem to snowball, it seems everything they need

Is denied them, they’re seen as different, some other kind of breed

And though the wise amongst us know, it’s all inside their head

That won’t restore the confidence, to those driven from their bed


The damaged child grows angry, when others are growing wise

They just don’t see the world the same, as do normal children’s eyes.

It can take so many decades, to find self realisation

That’s way too late in life, to bring about, a celebration


By then, they’d have most likely, left their own trail of destruction

As the pressures that they’ve had to bare, resulted in eruption

Time and time again, the guilt and shame within

Would punish them so terribly, for someone else’s sin


To overcome such damage, takes great self determination

But first there has to be some form, of self realisation

It’s then they start to understand, they’ve been left so far behind

Nothing can relieve for them, the load of life’s hard grind


I‘m pleased that I can settle, for a reasonable score

As a father and a husband, though I wish it had been more

Life for everyone is different, I often hear it said

But not as different, as for little children, driven from their bed.