a Poem about being homeless

* Disclaimer: This is by no means a good poem, but I felt I needed to give you something.

Winters are the worst for waif
especially if its a he.
People arent as charitable
you have to fuck your way
into a warm bed.
That itself can be an ordeal.
But you develope a skill in discerning
the honest from the violent.
I heard from a German that
if you loose three teeth you should
probably consider a different
idea of freedom. Because
afterall isnt freedom a relative
idea? At least thats
what a crack head once told me.
But then addiction is relative.
So is a bed, so are
the dead.