deepundergroundpoetry.com
Stuck in A Rut ( Fictional)
December arrives. December, month of festivities, the hardest month of all.
The temperature takes another dip. I've been here just over twelve weeks and it's beginning to show in all sorts of ways. The bus trips to the Library taper out and I lose interest in my reading, preferring to nap again in the middle of the day, except on the days when I have to sign on at the Job Centre.
Occasionally, I pick up a couple of cans of cider from that forbidden store tucked away near the promenade, the store where the gentleman and his wife turn a blind eye to underage drinkers if they wish. I let my bedroom get messy and wander the streets in my new hooded jacket, sitting and shivering in the concrete shelters on the promenade, smoking roll-ups and staring out at the bleak horizon and cheerless water, untidy stubble steadily mounting under my chin, while locals boys my age ignore me on the promenade front, seeing me as one of the freaks from the House.
One afternoon, I catch a reflection of myself in the sit-in cafe window. At first, I don't recognise the face. How can these dead eyes and puffy cheeks belong to me? This unhealthy complexion? These purplish lips? This stubble with flecks of fluff and the remains of dried egg from breakfast? Didn't my aunt only recently tell me that I was a lovely looking boy who just needed to land back on my feet and find a nice girl, given time? How have I ended up like this?
The temperature takes another dip. I've been here just over twelve weeks and it's beginning to show in all sorts of ways. The bus trips to the Library taper out and I lose interest in my reading, preferring to nap again in the middle of the day, except on the days when I have to sign on at the Job Centre.
Occasionally, I pick up a couple of cans of cider from that forbidden store tucked away near the promenade, the store where the gentleman and his wife turn a blind eye to underage drinkers if they wish. I let my bedroom get messy and wander the streets in my new hooded jacket, sitting and shivering in the concrete shelters on the promenade, smoking roll-ups and staring out at the bleak horizon and cheerless water, untidy stubble steadily mounting under my chin, while locals boys my age ignore me on the promenade front, seeing me as one of the freaks from the House.
One afternoon, I catch a reflection of myself in the sit-in cafe window. At first, I don't recognise the face. How can these dead eyes and puffy cheeks belong to me? This unhealthy complexion? These purplish lips? This stubble with flecks of fluff and the remains of dried egg from breakfast? Didn't my aunt only recently tell me that I was a lovely looking boy who just needed to land back on my feet and find a nice girl, given time? How have I ended up like this?
Published 26th Jan 2022
Author's Note
From a novel I wrote, the protagonist is 17 and living alone in an area where he knows no one. He has recently left Care, despite growing up in a large 3-generational extended family.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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27th Jan 2022 8:48am
Dear L,
I really liked the emotional side of this. Right out of the gate you can feel the restlessness of this young man. The vivid detail of his appearance and his living situation lend itself wonderfully in recreating youth and the uncertainty during that phase of life. H🌷
I really liked the emotional side of this. Right out of the gate you can feel the restlessness of this young man. The vivid detail of his appearance and his living situation lend itself wonderfully in recreating youth and the uncertainty during that phase of life. H🌷
27th Jan 2022 10:16pm
