Wildwood # 4

Placed in the getto by my case worker that I once Thought my friend. Isolation was my life at my age, near the end. Forced interaction with people whom steal, living in fear While they take my whole check. My door won't even close so I can have the illusion of safety. As one room mate threatened the other with a large butcher knife, This happened before with the same mental health agency. Graft and corruption by they whom run it, it being here, And one staff member whom yells at the one's traumatized and Abused before they ever came here. Half of the homeless are they whom I speak of, nothing cerebral About all whom would own us. confessional poetry, Is the hardest to write, when one must feel shame in the words that one writes and I do. The flies found her moist red spot as, Shannon had her period today and didn't use a tampon, Shannon has had several children and all have been taken from her. Her mental health has deteriorated in the short time she's been here, they get her check. Verily the path to quick wealth must lead the corrupt into poverty, And of those unable to speak thus are yelled at. While those here like me show compassion to they most in need.