the streets are my home

cold hard concrete

and nothing but the clothes 

on your back 

for a mother

 

your wits keep you alive

because 

you've outgrown 

couchsurfing;

the shelters are full

and a subway grate

is warmer anyways.

 

the cold stares of strangers

or worse;

the ones whose eyes

skip past you with indifference

as if you don't exist

as if you're invisible;

inhuman.

 

it's easy for those with 

a warm meal and

soft bed at night

to ignore those

who they wish didn't exist

but would never admit to themselves they do.

 

"lazy"

"they're all drug addicts"

"they just want your money"

because to them

addiction,

vagabondage,

are contagious monsters

that would ravage,

rape and pillage their homes,

given the chance.

 

you're cold,

fumbling for a light

to feel the burning in your lungs;

to feel nothing at all.

your tears

have long ago dried up

along with

any hope that

you might have had left.

 

"they can get a job if they want to"

what's a job application

without a street address?

phone number?

email?

who's going to hire

an unwashed,

unwanted teenager

a reject 

tossed out by a family

that couldn't care less

 

who's going to hire

an unwashed

unwanted veteran

affected by frankensteinian bouts

of what most call 

a sick and troubled mind;

plagued by memories of comerades

lost and violence best left unspoken

 

who's going to hire 

an unwashed

unwanted mother of two

struggling with a sweet tooth

for some,

street rock candy;

enslaved by the very thing

that so ironically

makes her feel alive

a junkie

a nothing

a nonentity with fearful eyes

and shaking hands

 

how can we rise out of this 

seemingly bottomless pit

without a light

or a ladder

or a caring hand?

how can we eclipse this phase 

in our seemingly hopeless existence?

 

empathy is your biggest weapon;

feeling compassion

towards your fellow somebody

is the first thing that will

provoke change;

because you could be us too.

 

we're tired of being

ignored,

treated like

undead creatures of the night

tired of the disgust

and contempt 

in their eyes 

as if they were 'better',

as if it could never happen to them.

fuck your ideas

and your disgust

and your fucking contempt.

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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