Perspective: Homeless youth of the American city.
My poem is about the day in the life of Stormy, a 17 year old girl who left home 2+ years ago. She talked to me for a while, realistically I suppose to see what she could get from me, which ended up being lunch and not cash, which I had the feeling she would have preferred. She said left home due to sexual and physical abuse, has used and been addicted to drugs since she was 12, and has done unimaginable things to survive. When I asked her how she starts her day she replied that first she wakes up, and her meaning was not just in the physical sense, but also to wake up to where and what she was. Then she has to “check” herself; am I hurt, was I robbed? These are the first two questions she asks herself each morning. When asked if, how, or when she planned to get “out” she answered probably not, she could see herself in the old women who scrap for their spot at the mission each night and get by on little more than some leftover food and enough of whatever was around to feed their addiction. She thought her only chance might be to be a rapper, and spoke often in rhyme, “in case anyone with some connections” passed by.
I know rhyming is a cliché poetic format, but this goes out to her.
Poem
“Wakeup!”
the cold piercing air screams
another night passed, free from the burden of improbable dreams
“Check yourself”
the foggy mind declares
Is there spit it your hair?
Is your stuff still all there?
Another day begins
free of promise, free of cheer
listless and hopeless, eternally
Another day begins
full of struggle, full of fear
no comfort here, only uncertainty
Meet those needs, fulfill the body’s greed, what comes first
is it food,
is it warmth,
is it a smoke,
is it a fix,
What is it that I need the worst?
The look right through me,
those passers by.
Seems they’re unable to hear my plea,
unwilling to meet my eye.
I look at their shoes, I look at their smile
Who’s most likely to stop and chat a while?
If I can just get ‘em talkin’
I know that they’ll see.
They’ll see I need help,
they’ll take care of me.
I know just what they’re thinking
“Just go HOME”
Home to what? Those hard hitting punches, those disgusting dirty looks
“Get a JOB”
From who? They give those to kids who learnt from books
There’s no room at the shelter
again tonight.
Didn’t come soon enough
Didn’t put up a hard enough fight
I’ll stay in the ally
or maybe the park.
I’ll go to sleep hungry,
scared and afraid of what happens in the dark.
-Mara Dahlberg, February 2014