Beggar on the street
Words run off my well oiled back,
But stares are worse than knives,
Leaving me vulnerable,
To the smallest of pricks.
Winds whip through my worn coat,
But chills are nothing,
Merely an empty tissue-box,
or a pair of odd socks,
To razorblades through my mind.
I've done nothing to offend you,
Yet you seem to think I'm dirt,
Akin to chewing gum on a footpath,
Picked up and spat-out
Through no fault of my own.
I am only one of many sir,
Of whom you seem to hate,
A punch-bag for your mood-swings,
A target for contemptuous looks,
A victim who won't fight back?
But Sir you are forgetting
One thing about yourself
It could be you tomorrow
Left sitting on a shelf