The degenerate

At one month to twenty-three,

I am a degenerate.

The bottom rung of society’s ladder

with my feet on the ground and

my eyes looking upwards

not to the ladder but

to the sky.

I have no money in my bank account

and a bottle of two-dollar coins on my desk.

All of my possessions are used,

or found on the side of the road,

or hand-me-downs,

or at least cheap.

-is that what I’ve become?

Selling my underwear to strangers online,

complete disregard of

the morals I once clung onto

but which can’t pay the rent or

put food in my mouth.

There comes a time

when you have no other option than to

accept the realities in life

and surrender the old ties that bound you.

I have started stealing from supermarkets

but they’re big corporations

so who gives a fuck?

It makes a tangible difference in my life

but they won’t notice a thing.

I savour things now –

a lucky find on the street,

the full-lipped roses hanging over fences,

homemade things; I find my

standards lowered and suddenly

everything is beautiful,

I can finally see the truth.

Like that money has no power over your happiness.

Or a moment is what you make of it.

Or when my head is lying on his chest

listening to his breathing,

the gentle growing of that glowing feeling

and an acceptance that it

will continue to grow.

Having, giving, experiencing love transcends

all earthly things we know.

No money or power or strength

could equal such a lifting

of the spirit.

It’s something of the soul.

I am a degenerate but I find richness in everything.


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