Anna L.


“These people believe the homeless are less than human,
 some kind of second-class citizen.

The homeless are your mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers.
We need to protect our community.”
            ~Steve Huston


She’s been living on the streets,

Framed with garbage and debris,

And she has nowhere to retreat.

Her clothes are old and sliced,

And she spends her lonely nights

Trying to win a futile fight.

The people throw copper coins,

When she really wants change.

But there’s no one you can blame,

When you live a life with shame.



Garbage everywhere.

Wind blowing in their faces,

As they run from life.



They keep running,

Panting; shoes are tearing.

They keep trying to escape.


They keep jumping,

Falling, but they cannot try.

Yet they try again.


They keep begging,

Pleading, praying for help.

But they leave with stomachs growling.


They need help,

But don’t get any.



He knows what hunger looks like.

And his voice isn’t his own

When he cries out for help.


No home to call his own

It smelled late. You know, the smell of night.

It’s like you’re smelling the stars.

He has no home to call his own.

So hopeless and tired.

He’s seen the way they stare at him,

With disgusted demeanor,

But he’s learned not to care.

He says he doesn’t want sympathy.

He wants a difference.



Tears and screams are all the same,

But hearts and heads divide us.


Spines and eyes are all the same,

But houses and boxes unbind us.


All in all we’re all the same,

But pride and freedom breaks us.



She had a little girl.

She had a little girl, and a blue house with flowers in the garden.

The woman put bread on the table.

But now, she’s in these streets,

Sleeping under street lights and atop cigarette butts.

She weakly asks for help,

But now the best she gets is a reaction.

She shakingly says she has hope for the next day,

But the truth is, she’s long gone.

She had a kid.

But now everything is gone.



His voice will shatter.

He brings the sun to it’s knees,

When he pleads mercy.


Just one more

Just one more.

Just one more day of living hell.

And maybe,

Maybe she’ll wake up.

Maybe she’ll wake up from a nightmare.

Maybe she’ll wake up to social justice, and honor, and hope.


Or maybe she’ll wake up on the roads.

Maybe she’ll wake up to being tossed around, like an old plastic bag left out in the wind.

Maybe she’ll wake up to expulsion.


Maybe she’ll wake up.



It wasn’t life after death,

It was pain after dread.

And it wasn’t homeless after home,

It was empty after full.


They’re trapped in their minds.

They walk, but they don’t know where they’re going.

They think, but their thoughts are empty.

They don’t want to, but they are forced to.

She blocks it out,

It’s not real.

Luck is just a funny little thing that doesn’t exist.

They’re happy, don’t worry.

They try to be happy.

Remain optimistic, remain optimistic.


But they’re trapped in their minds.


They are screaming.



The tears wouldn’t stop,

As she laid on her side.

Clenching her legs to her core,

Covered with dirt and scars.


The pain was too much,

As she heaved in the alley,

Spewing vacant words.


The suffering was too generous,

As the mad world refused her.


The grime was too dire

For a young girl to live in.



She was done with the abuse.

So she ran with her bruises.

She was done with the neglect,

So she looked for respect.

She just wanted hugs,

But instead, she met drugs.

She wanted to go home,

But now she’s alone.


“Poverty is the worst kind of violence.”
                    ~Mahatma Gandhi