Scarred

To get home, I take the trudge through this warzone every day.
Broken bottles line the sidewalk.
Well people have to cope somehow.
Sunlight never shines through the blinds because the widows are boarded.

This isn’t the type of place you go sightseeing, but I’ll be your tourguide for today.
First stop is the corner store; here you’ll find the toothless men who leave the broken bottles.
I’m sure whatever story they’re telling is great.
Truly sad it is that you nor I will ever be able to decipher their slurred tales.

To your right you’ll see a young girl.
Excuse her attire; that’s just typical uniform in her line of work.
“What kind of product is she selling?” you may wonder.
She isn’t selling the product; she is the product.
Sad as it may be, that’s one of the more prominent parts of the workforce around here.
If her mother were sober, maybe she wouldn’t have needed employment.

As we continue our walk, be sure to keep straight.
Most who detour into the allies don’t come back.
If only my friend had known that when he moved here.
He was always a gambler, but that night he lost money and a lot more.

You may also be wondering why those walking past us have such vacant eyes.
Around here we don’t get much sleep.
The sounds of bullets ricocheting often keeps us awake.
If not that, for me it’s the screams of lady next door.
Her husband is a giant but far from a gentle one.
I must bid you adieu now; you’d be best not to stay past sundown.
I pray this tour hasn’t left you scarred.