True Grit Poetry



Bare walls, no plaster, brick crumbling,


Burning cigarette, long strip of ash falling onto the bare mattress,

No carpet, broken windows,

Home until the wrecking ball visits.


Teeth missing, chapped lips, bruised body,

Old lumps, fresh blackened clots,

None on her face, punters don’t like it!


Black roots break out above cheap blond hair,


Like her make-up,

And tiny black dress.

Teeth yellowing, she flicks her fag onto the floor.


No one visits her here, she goes there,

Where ever there may be.

Driven in a silver saloon, bought from her earnings,

Dirty, filthy, used up.


Medicine hides the pain,

Not the stuff on prescription,

Her driver gets it,

She owes him.


Her wizened arm pukes up veins,

Tied tightly,

Needle goes in.

She sighs!

Eyelids close as the seedy world spins,

The butt drops,

Hits the mattress.


She doesn’t see the flame or smell the smoke,

Perhaps she’s in a better place.



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