Prophet of the lost arts. The cafe is open and I write poems. It’s no longer a soap opera, it’s Americans without homes, addicted to opiods. A land of songwriters and seriel killers. I don’t walk on eggshells, I walk on burning coals, living out my addictions. Junkies haunt the alleyways and the tired faces of the drunks are a ticking clock. I walk the mean streets, the meat between the layers of white society. Free range beggars are in the doorways. From the lost paradise of my youth to these hard habits that are my truth. Why is it that I like going into a heart of a city, but I hate walking past the homeless with empty pockets?
Peter Yowie Poetry