It feels like hell under here.

The echoing concrete overpowers every word. 

You wonder how the herds become fiery when they can’t even be heard. 

It doesn’t feel like home,

It rattles the soul. 

Addiction is hard on the streets especially when the impoverished can turn into trolls.

What is done to the unlucky ones?

How were they given this hand?

That may be one thing the grateful and needy may never understand. 

I never want to be there.

I never want to feel hopeless. 

I never want to protect my street corner, fending off crazies with clenched fists

Not all are bad,

The focused ones stay clean.

Yet, most folks choose to see them as unseen.

If they only had monumental help,

and they became one of us,

You better believe they’d help others in need with no fuss. 

I can’t relate to the cold nights.

I can’t be truthful in being “hungry” or “thirsty,” not even a smidge. 

I can only pray for those who live under the bridge.

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