She was ran off
So she ran off
Took a dive into the deep
Living in a cement landscape
Where no one ever sleeps

She was hustled
So she hustled
To keep her piece of pie
Working winter corners
Where no one ever cries

She was abandoned
So she abandoned
Her soul and left it bare
Trash covered sidewalks
Where no one ever cares

She was used up
So she used up
The last of her stuff
Dark room, off a dark street
Where no one ever loves

That boy who you see in class everyday,
Yeah, the one with the long hair that covers his eyes
And the dark, ratty sweatshirt?
Do you know what he goes through on a daily basis?
His mom is a crack addict, his dad is in jail,
And he's the youngest of seven siblings.
The only real food he ever gets is
The “terrible” school lunch, which to him
Tastes like heaven.
The only real exercise he gets is from
Running away from his mom when she's high,
And the only real alone time he ever gets is
When his mom locks him in the
Bathroom for days at a time.
So don't get mad at him for
Missing your group's presentation day,
Or for always asking you for your food at lunch.
Get mad at the people who make
His life at school as bad as home,
The people who talk loudly about his horrible hygiene,
Who laugh when he doesn't understand a math problem,
Who visibly flinch whenever he walks by just for the fun of it.
Get mad at them.
And then get mad at yourself.
Be upset with yourself for having the power
To help this kid and kids like him, and ignoring it.  
Be upset with yourself for talking
About him behind his back,
Refusing to share your food at lunch with him,
And for avoiding him in class.
Be upset with yourself.
And then do something with this anger,
This passion you have built up.
Share his story, help someone like him,
At least vow to never, ever, let something
Like this happen to your child.
I wrote this poem.
What will you do?

I let myself
Slip away
Softly
Gracefully
Eternally

As I laid my head,
anticipating the arrival
of a long day’s sleep...

I heard the beating of my heart -
faint but clear - marking the quiet
that loomed before rest.

I traced each beat...
Counted them, knowing that
soon would come
and I’d be in slumber deep.

I remembered another
whose beats matched those of mine -
I finally let go, and got lost
in my cosy nighttime nest.

He has a bench in Central Park,
a step on Seventh Avenue,
a corner on Broadway.
But home is a feeling rather than a location,
something those who have a lock and key and
a mortgage fee will never understand.
The gatekeepers tell him
‘That bench is for people to sit on’,
so he grabs his sleeping bag with beat up weathered hands,
and leaves the park,
realising ‘people’ is another category in which he does not belong.
Autumn is here
so winter is near.
A chance to rush to snowy mountains with Chanel scarves
to escape ‘dreary’ lives.
He takes his vacation
from park to doorway,
views aren’t as nice but it dulls the bite.
As night drapes over Manhattan, he zig zags between expressionless crowds,
invisible
like an unread word.
He seeks a corner just off Broadway (the bright lights numb his loneliness).
In soiled clothes and old scuffed shoes,
he sits on newspaper wrinkled by other hands
and watches passers-by with bloodshot eyes,
bills burning in their pockets.
A man with shoes shinier than dreams
soils his corner with a *** of spit.
He wonders,
do I belong everywhere, or nowhere at all?
And he pulls out his guitar and begins to sing,
October cough thick with illness,
‘They say
the neon lights are always bright
on Broadway’.