Little bit uneasy, curvy-toes-crooked-back, paper feet and an empty stomach, so wrought with pain and energy it's a wonder how he breathes. He grabs his face and spits it out, so wide and clean, yet obscene. Nails lined with hairline cracks and filled with grit and skin, so old they understand the folds of time. Contorting his back, he clears his throat and picks his strings his skirmishes, beats his knee and sends his voice trickling down, clambering for a chance to roast chestnuts (be king) on College in the rain (Rome), he lifts his chin and strains to never be forgotten. Pinching papers on the corner (spreading love), rubbing hands and losing a disease with every contact on a human level. So he scratches his mouth and bares his teeth, impressed by authoritative manner, nudges a stranger: You are what I was, honey. And he laughs, amused by luxury and so many blind eyes and turned cheeks. Just as his diaphragm heaves for the last time he points to me, licks his lips: You'll be what I am, baby, you'll be what I am.
Reason for writing:
A homeless friend of mine and a Medieval painting of Jesus being crucified inspired me to write this poem. It's a large part of me.
Birth sign: Not entered
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