🖤🖤 Homelessness, Living In A Police State 🖤🖤 Poem by James McLain

Blistering heat, brutal winter cold,
Florida burns you alive by day,
freezes the soul at night.
no roof but the stars,
and even they are fading,
who ever heard of light pollution.

Republican donors dine well,
do all of the drug's, they put us in prison for.
Gorging themselves to the point of bursting, off of fat contracts,
off the backs of ghosts
in tattered clothes
shoved into cells
that hum with fluorescent misery.

The state says,
'they were already broken, '
'already diseased, '
'we just stacked their wreckage neatly, '
and the morgue nods along.

A man dies of cancer
he never knew he had—
an autopsy's cruel revelation.
another dies from the premeditated introduction of h.i.v.
buttfucking each other punk's claiming their pregnant,
and nothing but waisted time.

A woman cries herself to death,
her screams mistaken
for the warden's madness.

The pills are meant to quiet you,
to dull your square edges,
this make you easier to store.
prison isn't shelter—
it's a graveyard
for those the streets
couldn't finish.

With the price of real estate, here you can still be buried.
Your number is on a small, motorcycle tag, no name, like you never existed.

The autistic, the lost,
the addicted,
every drug a small rebellion
against a world,
that doesn't fit the selfish minds,
they all have.

There is no hope here,
Emily once said,
it was never about hope or rehabilitation, just endless misery.


Just some line,
no one ever wants to skip,
you shuffle down, then up—
and at the end,
nothing is waiting for you,
but a prefabricated box
that even the young have found a way to died in.