It's 4AM and the cold, empty,
abandoned building I call home
won't stop making noise.
I go to sleep alone, with a loaded .380 in my hand.
There have been 4 break-ins in the past couple months.
And I don't trust the sounds I am hearing.
Sections of the roof crumble and fall throughout the night.
The rats knock over rusted tin cans.
I hear taps on the windows.
Half of the lights have stopped working,
and shadowy figures appear everywhere.
I often wake up to the sound
of the motion sensor alarms,
I cock the gun in my hand and call out to nothing.
I shout with anger.
And for a minute, the noises stop.
But that peace doesn't last.
And soon, my senses are being attacked once again.
And I find myself laying my head on my pillow,
staring at the walls of my tent,
waiting to die.
there are no sugar plums here.