My Poetry. Street Life.

Night falls again, the brutal cycle turns—
Where can a lost soul find a place to sleep?
The meager spaces are rapidly filling,
The suffering is rising, places are knee-deep.
Huddled people lie down, some as young as ten,
They are here now, just as they have always been.

Streetwise kids with faces blackened by dust,
Mixed up, broken adults, of various plight,
They lie in pathetic bundles, spewed in desperate rows,
Covered by scraps of cardboard, exposed to the cold night,
Barely visible, except for their cold, dirty toes.

Hungry, desperately poor,
Clutching empty, useless bottles for warmth.
Cars fly recklessly past on the street,
Their drivers indifferent, full on their throttles.
No one in the bright city wants
To truly know who these hidden humans are;
Young kids are slowly dying right outside a bar!

Taken by harsh disease,
By slow starvation, by unforgivable neglect.
No one left to talk to,
No one showing them basic human respect.
The next time you quickly pass
A struggling human being on the street,
Stop, open your heart, and simply say hello,
Don't rush by, dismissing them with your feet.

They are not monsters; they are simply down on their luck.
Underneath the surface is a beating, vital heart,
Though covered by the grime and cold muck.