I write for the downtrodden
For those who haven’t found their place in this eat you up and spit you out cut throat world
I write for those who need a helping hand to crawl out of their pit of ‘you are shit’
Where misfortune throws the meek, the weak, the ‘I can’t cope’
The afflicted, the convicted, the souls who pray without a hope.
The metaphorical cup of tea with those judged dregs by our heartless society
The folk who wear their labels ‘pray for me, pray for me’.

I write for the homeless
For those who brave the streets of danger, invisible to every stranger
Who passes in their swathes of indifference and cloaks of ignorance
Homeless, human, sentient, despondent, waiting for a caring soul to be respondent
Even an ‘are you hungry, love’ can humanise
Not every person walking along side will pass by and despise, dehumanise.
When will society prioritise these needy?
Why is it ok for people to sleep on the streets, or is it the rich are too greedy?
They sleep in their goose feather duvets of opulence whilst the homeless slumber in piss stinking doorways of petulance.
How many geese have died for your decadent dreams and how many homeless have died in their demonic, hellish nightmares?

I write for the poor
For those who haven’t a pot to piss in
For those who can’t decide between beans for tea or £5 in the leccy
For those who live in mouldy homes, their children chesty
Who stretch their universal credit but they still can’t feed the kids
Who go to foodbanks to fill their bellies till they can win on the lottery and make a few quid
Who apply for jobs but there are so many people fighting for employment and they don’t have any GCSE’s
And they’ve wasted £10 for an outfit in Primani and even begged the job centre, on their knees.
But they’re despondent
Always waiting, always waiting, for the bad news, for that rejection letter.

I write for the downtrodden youth
Hanging in packs like lost souls
Futile at a future that holds no future,
Like characters lost in a video game, battling almost impossible challenges
Obstacles looming, crime rates booming, defiance fuelling dissonance and hatred
Parental roles imbalanced, authority losing their controlling stance
No youth clubs, no activities, no respect, no inspiration, no inclination
To succeed
No hopeful dreams to be freed
From this

I write for the mentally afflicted
My brothers, my sisters in psychiatric hell, conflicted
By ruthless cuts in provisions
No psychiatrists, no nurses, unless you’re ‘severely’ ill
Gp’s telling the depressed ‘try these’ they will soothe your sadness,
It’s only a bloody pill
But pills are not the only answer, pills are like a bandage
They soak up all the tears but you’re still left with the fear, the pain, the psychological damage.
Where are all the psychologists? Where are all the counsellors and where are all the hospital beds?!

I write for the downtrodden
And I know I am not far from the bottom of the heap
I know I am one pill shot of the psych ward
But I have my dreams
I have my dreams.

©2020 Sarah Drury

The Flock

The Flock

It is winter
On the estate
Behold the flock of fledgling souls
Bedecked in Nike, Fila, Adidas
Or maybe Puma
If they’re strapped for cash.
They gather blindly
Like human sheep
Around their phones, their chilly bones
Whilst attitudes of futility around them creep.
In other prosperous boroughs the children sleep
But this is my estate
Where the road that’s paved in gold is just too steep.

Huddled, puddled, muddled youths
Lost already to the culture
Where knives are toys
And guns an aspiration.
And profanity is a cocky demonstration
Of rebellion.
With a gangsta culture a big inspiration
With the rap, the culture map, the deadly crap
That they live up to.
Crime a game of fuck the police
Cos life is not a cashpoint machine
And money does not come free
And neither does liberty
If the cops have their way.

And this is my estate
They flock in parks where drink
And oblivion
Ease the weight of being shit in the world
And ease the pain of a future where
The doors are already shut in their faces
And they already know they’re not going places
One road journey
And this street is a dead end.
And they are children
But they lost their childhood already.
And this is their piss poor legacy
And this is my estate.

© Sarah Drury 2019