This place

How shall I, describe this place;
this jail of boring dull embrace,
with green facade, while flowers bloom,
between two streets of dirty fume?

The stench here slowly goes away,
as some will talk, and some will pray.
Some are kind and some are mean,
and some are very heard and seen.

A place of good and bad it seems,
a bed of dirty stranger dreams,
as color caught within the grey,
permeates most every day.

Sometimes, the sound, of music plays,
with songs of old and Christian praise.
Here deprivation has its grip,
on those with little ownership.

Many here, will bum a smoke.
The cigarette has made them broke.
Rain and foot have stomped the ground,
to bury butts and trash around.

An unintended dump within,
a step up from the loony bin,
so one can say, this place is great,
if they compare it, to the state.

Life here has its twists and turns.
The bitter ropes, one sometimes learns.
Some get work and some break free,
but most have little family.

Many die, but some get well.
One could say, it's heavens hell.
A place of ease and strict routine,
that's hardly really very clean.

So How do I describe this place,
this place of beauty and disgrace?
I could write more; I could go on;
but the day is too far gone.
Written by Aquaheal
Author's Note
This is a poem about the group home I live in.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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