6-7-8-9-5

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  • Sadness

    6-7-8-9-5

     There I am,
    Below the 42nd street overpass,
    Amongst the defecation and rats.
    Haunted by the expired scent of men,
    I sit in the shadows,
    Alone and unwanted.

    I am the soloist.
    Loneliness has been my violin.
    Listen as it plays my song.
    Listen... and ignore the cries,
    Never mind the sighs,
    Forget the unsavory-unsanitary quarters.
    Can you spare some change?

    If I could
    I would
    But since I cant
    I wont bother
    Trying to make you understand
    How I got here.
    Every day you pass here
    Never noticing me.

    I hope you hear my song.
    The music of a 54 year old man,
    Down on his luck,
    Down on the ground.
    My face covered in dirt,
    From where last I laid.
    Tattered shoes and holey clothes
    Demanding attention be paid
    But I am too poor for that.

    I stopped living long ago.
    Here is where I exist.
    A ghost.
    A reject.
    A soloist.

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    SmileyAngel138 commented on 6-7-8-9-5

    09-09-2009

    wow this is deep, sometimes when you pass the homeless you sometimes forget that they are in pain...you def opened my eyes with this one...great job :-)
    Reply to Comment

    DennisScott

    09/10/2009

    Thank you much for your kind words.

    Mayte commented on 6-7-8-9-5

    08-31-2009

    I truly enjoyed reading this poem. Its deep, beautiful and well written. I'm amazed by your maturity. Thank you for the music and keep them coming
    Reply to Comment

    WordChallenged commented on 6-7-8-9-5

    08-30-2009

    The violin is one of my favorite instruments, when ever i hear someone playing one i have to stop and listen! great read!
    Reply to Comment

    latinangel commented on 6-7-8-9-5

    08-20-2009

    As a musician and a singer I can relate to the musicality of your poem and that touches me. It is a very vivid portrait of what someone in this position would think or feel. It is a hardcore poem and I mean that in a good way. Great work on this one. I applaud your efforts.
    Reply to Comment

    DennisScott

    08/20/2009

    I appreciate the love. Thank you.

    MCross commented on 6-7-8-9-5

    08-19-2009

    Nice my man. I am elated to see your hanging in there. You are coming into a zone. This is an amazing poem.
    Reply to Comment

    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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