Dirty hands
He can't help it
In a box on the side of the road
Is his home
The only money he gets
Is from some kind fellow walking down the street
He never used to be this way
He used to be great
Bombs exploding
Running through buildings
Escaping the ruins
Crying for his lost comrades
The horrible memories come flooding back
The memories he thought had left
Came back like a tsunami
He shakes and cries
A young boy stops
And from his pocket he pulls out money
$20 all to himself.
What will he do?
He wants a home
But the need for food is more important
But so is a new shirt
And shoes
The wind picks up
The money flies
He lost his one chance
Back to the box he walks
On the news tonight
You won't hear of the poor old man
The old man with dirty hands.
You will hear of Israel and their war
But not of the poor old man
Who fought for our country
And died with
Dirty Hands.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Someone
PoetryJust some thoughts of a lost girl. Just gonna put this out there but my very first poem is very dark and very scary. I, in no way, shape or form encourage anorexia and self harming. A lot of my poems come from the bad times I've been going through...
