He bleeds through his knees that have been fitted for his future, a running methamphetamine that never stops. I see him being unprejudiced, stabled, falling down and sometimes dropping over onto the ground. His thoughts are mucked while his wisdom beaten, bruised, and battered. He cries out in pain or elation only he knows confused he is, as he walks. Dirt crusted, torn pants, black hair streaked with grey open sores and old snot crusts his nose. Slowly he pulls himself on the road. Whenever he stands, people scamper pass him giving disgusting glances others pretend to disregard. He precariously extends a dirty hand, weakly he whispers ‘Please help me’. He’s no one’s husband, no one’s father, no one’s son, he is alone, and everyday hoping someone or anyone will surely notice him.
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