The Old Man on Birch StreetThe first time I saw him he was sitting on an old metal bench along the sidewalk of Birch Street. I'll admit I was judgmental like everyone else. His face was thin and had quite defined cheekbones. His skin was wrinkled from old age and a rough life, I guessed. His eyes were grey, almost a faded blue, and hardened. He wore a pair of black pants that were too short on him, and so thin that I guessed his legs were numb from the cold. His tattered old coat also had holes and was probably older than the man himself. The man's nose was very defined; despite his ragged clothes, the man's facial structure made me think that he should be royalty.
It was beginning to snow again, and I was in a bad mood. Work was intense and I was sick of the snow. Being single and a young man of twenty-four, I was all-consumed with my job and, mostly, myself. I never had time to stop and talk with beggars on the street; well, I never made time all they ever wanted was money. And I had far more i
SuicideShe was artsy.Suicide5 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
She was odd.
She was a victim of the mob.
No one liked her.
No one cared.
They'd make fun or sit and stare.
She didn't cry.
She didn't fight.
She just let them take her rights.
A month went on,
And then one more.
All of their ridicules, alone she bore.
It all built up,
Until one night.
The "bulb" went off- she saw false light.
She chose her fate,
Then and there.
No one would miss her, since no one cared.