So far things have been pretty great.
Not much to complain about.
Ever food upon my plate.
And yet to be blessed with gout.
I started as a little boy.
Probably crying. Who cares or knows?
Turned into a crawling bag of blood.
Ten fingers and ten toes.
A fun but forgotten formation.
With morning baths my plight.
Mountains of information.
Before a slumbered switch of light.
Sometimes sleep eluded me.
Sometimes I eluded it.
But food was always fresh and free.
Computer monitor always lit.
Avoiding smoked pressure.
As a rarely rebellious teen.
The black of my shirts a measure.  
Of the horrors I've yet to see.
Some studies, stress and cars.
Normal, expected, much like most.
Some loves, regrets and bars.
Some bacon, eggs and toast.

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Or
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Like the many, many others.
With ever waning health.
Untouched by a loving mother.
Not born with relative wealth.
I sleep in slums, streets and shacks.
With whole hunger in my eyes.
I live inside the calloused cracks.
Of a veiled, dirt disguise.
Today's another closing door.
Another dose of killing time.
To letters I am an underscore.
The darkest beam of sunshine.
Tomorrow seems like much the same.
More escaping to get by.
Living inside the cruelest game.
Difficulty set to high.
The transparent cloak I wear.
Has been through the coldest times.
It protects me from the stares.
Of their perfect, endless eyes.
I am nothing but these begging hands
Nothing but a will to cope.
A lack of plans and fashion brands.
The lack of a noosed hope.

Begging kids are very often seen,
Performing the ridiculous dances,
In hopes of just some of silver dirt,
Cleaning with dirtiest rags your car,
With a lifeless looking baby in arms,
A teenage mama with another inside,
Such is any Indian big city's traffic.

Manipulating them is a hidden lord,
Report to Lord of the Traffic Signal.

Sympathy is what they hope,
Empathy is what we reflect,
Apathy is what they really get.