We watch them every day
Living through hell
While we overindulge and feel the joys of life

Why don’t we see the misery all around us
Why don’t we feel their pain
Why are we ok with ignoring their cries for help

Are we all ok with their suffering
Are we so selfish that we value our belongings over their lives
Or are we just all asleep dreaming of a world where we don't have to feel uncomfortable when they ask for our money

When will we no longer be ok with their suffering
When will their lives come before our trinkets
When will we finally awake to see the people we hurt everyday

Until then we will continue to
Watch them every day
Living through hell
While we overindulge and feel the joys of life

"I walk these cold empty streets at
night,
Without knowing how to make it 
right,

As you sleep in your warm
bed,
I can't fathom how to make it
ahead.

Will you know I wandered
past,
Ponder it as you break your
fast?"

I’m not too sure how I really got here?
I just know my feet really hurt!

Like a thousand knifes all over my body, the cold cuts through me and my shirt.

I understand the disdain of Homelessness, trust me Brother, I do.
But my feet still hurt me my Sister, If only you could walk a day in my shoes.

But you cannot, because I have none, not a lace to my name.
The days are long, but the nights are longer still,
Though the cold is all the same.

My hands reach out in defiance, reliance in silence they cry!
Please Help Me! Please Help Me! my Father,
Please Help Me! Passerby.

Every night he’d count his lucky stars,
But he could never get past zero.

He curled against the city streets,
Nothing to drink, nothing to eat.

He had no one.
No one to make him feel like the sky was only being held up
because they existed.
Every single day he searched
For a reason to be alive.

Painting a smile on his face
As he stared at the flowers.
“Aren’t they beautiful?”
Telling himself he loved the sky and its stars,
Pleading with himself to find enjoyment in something. Anything.
Because he was scared if he didn’t find something,
He wouldn’t be living anymore.

He was the withering flower on the sidewalk,
He sat in people’s shadows
And never felt the sunlight on his skin.

Goosebumps spiked on his bare arms,
The light in the windows looked so warm.
Soft gold…
The radiant glow of guaranteed survival.

Every night he’d count his lucky stars,
But he could never get past zero.

To become poor
be miserable.
Chuck your shoes
into the ocean and feel
the sand in your toes.

Throw your last few sapphires
rings and ruby necklaces into
the murky green water and let them drift
away from your mind so someone
else can find them.

Give all your money to a charity
any charity
And just like that,
walk away.

Live in the streets
where rats are the size of racquetballs,
the flies are your leaders to food.
Thrive in a cardboard box that’s taped up
And covered by a tarp.

Listen to the croaks and groans
of your cardboard box as it snows
simply because you have nothing else but cold

Do this and I'll guarantee that you'll be poor.
I'll guarantee that you'll stink in writhing wrinkling clothing
and if you ever happen to be loaded again
extend your hand whether real or monetary
to those you friended in the ally. Show them
that you have the curse that gives hope.

Have you ever looked into an old man’s eyes
as he ****** himself in his broken wheelchair,
quivering from the cold under a shop canopy
and all you have to offer him is some carrot soup?

That sheepish smile is the worst, when it’s time to leave.
You’ve given him an old beanie, maybe a cup of coffee with no sugar.
What do you say? See you soon? Have a nice evening?
You’re disabled and sleeping in your own ***** tonight.

Perhaps you've heard the ramblings of a mentally-ill stranger
shouting loud nothings at passers-by; incoherent, confused;
He's emaciated, with an empty coffee cup in his withered hands
carrying but a single 2 pence piece to his estate.

Some of these chaps even leave their sandwiches to go rotten.
See, if it’s rotten, you’ll get sick,
and then you can’t be ignored
because your ***** is making the pavement stink.

That mentally ill fellow, he sits outside Tesco’s every night,
sitting up against a lamppost laden with stickers:
“Smash the Patriarchy”;
“No country for white men”.

The Women’s March goes straight past his sleeping bag;
this example of human detritus means nothing to them
but for the smell it produces and the rats it attracts;
I imagine it'd put me off my macchiato too.

Maybe you deserve it; your eyes are blue and your skin is white;
GUILTY AS CHARGED in London Town.
You're out there in winter-time at 02:06
and I don't know if we'll meet again.

Sorry I couldn’t do more, my friends.

I will never wish words, only my actions as all syllables
   eventually fade..   Take my coat and the few dollars
as actions are worth more than just singular words...
         sleep warm with worth more than thoughts..