Tuesday, February 5, 2013
A Place I Don't Want To See Again
There's this one place, a hotel, where beds are messy and things are scattered. Tools and objects. No good.
Another place, that smells of cigarettes, an apartment, with bedbugs under the bed. Nothing but beer and chicken in the fridge. A place of indecisiveness and hate. Filled with sarcasm and "couldn't-care-less" attitudes.
Another place, a run-down house, filled with people I don't know. Drugs. Dirty. Awkward. Strange.
Another place, a street, where others' doings are private, but not secret. Hoopin' and hollerin'. Loose, careless bodies. Blood was spilled. People, me, hurt.
Another place, a facility, where lost souls are taken in, droves at a time, and nurtured back to life. Where they are given guidance, structure, and a second chance. Some people take it, some leave it. Filled with people of all kinds; differences, but still the same.
Another place, where mentally unstable people go to figure out their troubles. Friends are made, but never kept. Where some workers are mean and strict, and some understanding and loving. They hold yoour hand in all but the physical sense.
Another place, a place where lives are saved, but unpleasant nonetheless. Uncomfortable. Awkward. Boring. Sedation.
Another place, a house with rooms packed with beds. No room to breathe. Requirements and responsibilities. Thieves and shape-shifting, conniving women. You want to be friends, but it's vulnerability they feed on, luring you in for the taking. Taking advantage, that is. Taking serenity. No room for peace of mind.
Another place, a city, made up of country singers, drug dealers, homeless drunks, and all the other entrails of a big city. Its familiar streets make me want to puke, and I don't ever want to be there alone again. Too close to old people who use and abuse. Mistreat. I try to think of other things, but that's essentially all I can think about when I'm there.
I need my soundness. My serenity and my family. Because, that's where I really want to be.