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Fearless Jun 24
I dished up plates as he walked by
greasy stringy dyed red streaks
guitars hanging on all sides
the smells of unwashed body reeks
tattooed fingers and a lip ring
soft smooth tenor from his soul
man can that pirate guy sing
but his street life takes it's toll
never smiles, furtive eyes
scared of those that steal for drugs
this pirate garb is his disguise
but offers homeless friends his hugs
he saunters off to write some songs
this strange man caught my writer's eye
making money to right some wrongs
I was compelled to write about this guy
the life of the homeless is a mystery
the tales they could tell us, wild
about their sordid history
I'm sure that it would not be mild
and now I pray that they can sleep
Jesus loves these poor souls too
and for their sins, He did weep
they're the same to Him as me and you
Effie Rose Jul 20
You may believe home to be an address,
You are wrong.
The co-ordinates I list as my place of residence,
Are subject to change.
As do the seasons,
As my health waxes and wanes,
As my job becomes a harrowing echo,

My home will remain,

As the night-sky,
Glistens and reminisces.
Its nostalgic ribbon intertwines with my soul -
My heart,
Recognises its home.

The waves,
That serenely lap against the shore,
Leaving, once elapsed,
A maze of its belongings,
Like a Nomad on his journey.
Demonstrative tides of exposure,
Against our profane human culture,
To jumble together
In definition,
Our home and our belongings.

Does this translate,
That home is sovereign
Of worldly corruption,
And is therefore
Safe from life’s unpredictability?

It is a state of mind.

Home is the essence which coats your soul.
Home is the promise of peace.
Home could never be my place of residence,
For between hospitals and the couches I have surfed,
Void of worldly possessions,
I have never once been homeless.
I possess more than the man who cannot see
That a fixed abode in this world is not the true interpretation,
Of a phrase so bespoke.

As I look into the night-sky,
And reminisce;
As the waves serenely lap
Against the borders of land and sea,
I accept that no matter where in the world I may find myself,
The moon will still shine,

The waves will still sing soft melodies to the sand,
And my home,
I forever hold in my hand.
'Home' explores life's uncertainty through the key issues of homelessness, ill health and our materialistic culture. They always say, 'Home is where the heart is.' - but what does that truly mean applied to our daily lives?
Ragna Jul 10
City street lights illuminate the depressed streets, filled with the homeless, fiends, and the city folk. Whilst the city folk go along with their life, not thinking a single thought of their “lessers” not considering how their actions affect them.
City streets illuminate yet another person taking their last breath, they thought they didn’t matter, they thought they were a waste of space.
Yet another fiend sticks a needle in their arm, little did they know there was poison in the needle.

Will the city folk ever wake up and see the death around them? Of course they won’t. Because the death of the “lessers” doesn’t affect them. Until it’s one of their relatives, or even them.
The mayor doesn’t pay enough attention to notice, the governor doesn’t care if they live or die.
The President doesn’t care either. We mustn’t look down on the “lessers”, but instead, lift them up. Stop the death, stop the harm, stop the depression.

But of course, that will never happen. They will forever be stuck in a never-ending loop of self-harm, drug abuse, homelessness, and so many other horrible things that nobody should ever have to deal with.
Here ya go friendos... Hope y'all enjoy!
A Lazarus body litters the sidewalk
outside a well-lit, desolate lobby.

On the left is a mexican restaurant,
with a line reaching to the
entrance. They should stamp
the grey and scratched up
plexiglass with a light and
dark purple neon:
Welcome To America.
It would be reinforced
by every delicious crunch
one hears on the way out as
cheap crumbs garnish concrete.

On the right, there’s a bar
alive on a Friday night.
Friends share hearty laughs
and pats on the back.
The bitter and the perishing
pretend they want this
when they should be
somewhere or someone else.
And mingling singles look for
compliments and numbers,
or maybe just someone to
take back and **** the **** out of.

But in the midst sits
a throne for ghosts.
Ceiling fluorescent reflects
off porcelain, paler than a farmer tan.
There are no other colors besides
the receptionist, bored to death,
leaning on the wall behind
the porcelain reception desk,
reading a copy of Ebony.
No ottomans or chesterfields
or benches. No consoles or cocktail
tables. Nothing adorning the walls.
Not even a stain.
Just a white hole, a bright
***** in an otherwise colorful
street on gray canvas.

I rise from my slumber
and mosey on out the lobby
in my purple linen suit.
The impoverished scrag,
his dog lapping his sores, asks
if I’d spare some change.

“Sorry, I only have card tonight.”

“That’s alright, sir. God bless.”

And I walk on, aware of the
Abrahams rubbing up against
a ****** in my wallet. I take a sip
of whiskey hidden in my empty
can of a drink that can never
satiate me. I wait for traffic to pass,
and then I jaywalk across Sticks St.

by Aleksander Mielnikow
Luke 16:19-31
Juan Bot Apr 11
Read it up to down, then read from the last stanza up to the first

They don’t deserve our help.
So don’t tell me,
They deserve a second chance.
Open your eyes
They are nothing but
Drug addicts and alcohol abusers
With needles pinned to their shoulders
Littering the sidewalk
They are sloths
Stop saying
We should
Support local shelters
Instead, we should
Get rid of them
We must not
Share our food and
Give them a helping hand
I have a better idea, let’s
Throw them into a river
It’s not okay to
Acknowledge their existence.
They are worthless, failed abortions
And don’t be stupid to think that
These people are just like us.
Read it forward, then read it in reverse. Two Polar Opposite Perspectives. Support your local homeless people.
Atop the low green hill
My house
Painted white
With doors and windows in blue
The roof red-tiled
Bathed in sunlight
Stands out
I live there alone
It is not my home
In there
No one receives me
No one sees me off
When I stare at its walls
The house stares back at me
No questions asked
No approval sought
Nerves not strained
No tear shed
Silence reigns
With the wheel on a spin
My life goes on
According to familiar lines
Unperturbed and un-noticed
Homelessness is not for the poor,
without a locked window or door.
Neither is it for the less privileged,
or all those that are marginalized.

We are all somehow very homeless.
This world is not our home, regardless...
Heaven is our home beyond this world,
A beautiful place prepared by the Lord.

Rich or poor, black or white, tall or short,
Our final destiny is what this is all about.
Every day brings us closer to the end,
End of the mission on which we were sent.

One day at a time, one by one, we'll all go,
To this place built for us a very long time ago.
We are all strangers in this world of ours,
Each man must live and love down to his final hours.

This world is not our home.
Ella Downing Mar 25
You are a sentence uttered quietly
Under breath.

You are on-show from the flashy coffees to the rushed sandwiches swallowed whole, to the bottles of wine spontaneously indulged on on the commute home.
Yet you have never felt so hidden.

You make people feel things they don't want to feel on these errands.
These pointless tasks that amount to all.

But there are more of you now than before.
A whole library of the same sentence.
The reply is always empty.
A Psalmist Mar 21
7 billion people in the world; they say you can’t love every one,
But shouldn’t all 7 billion at least be loved by someone?
We all have our circles of family and friends,
And I’m not saying love them any less,
But what about those who aren’t as blessed?
Who loves them in their distress?
Who will look beyond the mistakes
And weep with them in their heartache?

Who weeps for the woman holding the sign
At the off-ramp for all the cars in a line,
Bearing looks of disdain behind rolled up windows
Bearing more shame as each car goes?
A helping hand might stretch out food or a twenty
But none of that helps when she says she’s so lonely,
That she’s “so **** depressed” as people drive right on by.
Who stands with her as tears fill her eyes?

Who weeps for the man on the bench waiting
For an opportunity to come, as his hope’s fading?
A former carpenter, skilled with his hands,
Willing to work but not given a second chance.
He hides his desperate eyes behind sunglasses
From all the wealth and comfort as it passes.
He doesn’t know where the past 7 months have gone,
But he’s not searching for that, just somewhere he belongs.

Who weeps for the girl who doesn’t lie about her “needs”,
Her cardboard asking for money, food, alcohol, and ****?
And for her request, it’s judgement she’s received
From people who don’t know she’s been on the streets since 16,
Kicked out of the house at the hands of abuse
By an alcoholic father who has a short fuse.
Her life reduced to just the next meal;
Who cares for her when she says it’s no big deal.

Who weeps for the man who sits on the steps
Trying to fight his addiction to ****?
He wants to change; he knows it’s ruining his life.
He lost his restaurant, his home, and even his wife.
Brochures in hand from multiple rehab centers,
The last thing he needs are glances calling him  sinner.
He needs someone who will help him through the fight.
Who will walk with him just to make it through the night?

Who weeps for Kat, Zona, Lilith and Robert
And so many like them going through hurt?
The answer to this question I’ve posed:
It’s the One whose tears matter most.
A God not distanced from His creation
But who weeps for the pain in all of the nations,
Who weeps over death even though there’s life in His name,
Who calls those who mourn blessed because He comforts them again.
Jesus loves all the least of these:
The poor in spirit, the beggar, and the meek.
He welcomes the marginalized and ostracized,
The minimized and disenfranchised,
And it’s not until we realize
This truth with our own eyes
Will we no longer just stand by.

We don’t have to tell Him about all this injustice
Because He is a sovereign God who can be trusted.
He cares about them more than we ever could,
It is in His nature to always be good.
Again, who weeps for them?
Jesus weeps BECAUSE He is for them.
He’s promised to bring healing and restore all things.
He will wipe away every tear as our King of kings.
But while this time is not yet, we shouldn’t be idle.
Out own comfort and self-preservation should not be an idol.
So go out and love and weep, but not as a project to help others,
Rather because everyone is an image bearer of God, our sister and brother.
Be ready to wait, to walk, to love, to feed His sheep
And do so in the strength of a God who loves, a God who weeps.
Inspired by some friends who live on the streets near where I work.
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