They tell her she won't make it, that she won't succeed.
That she should give up everything she believes.
Everything she hopes to achieve.
She'll never make it because she lives on the streets.
People say as they look at her and then away.
Pretending they don't see her. She's see through, like glass.
To them, but she wears a mask.
Hiding behind a wall of despair.
She walks on as if she's not there.
A ghost, roaming the earth,
unfinished business she had since birth.
All alone, reaching out for a helping hand.
Asking people for spare change,
Holding out her hand, just to get it smacked down.
She climbs up the poverty ladder just to get pushed back down.
People shake their heads as they walk pass.
Embaressment for her disguised as they laugh.
She has needed a bath for years.
The dirt on her face reveals the path of her tears.
She has long since silenced her ears,
blocking out the cruel music of profanity and laughter.
Pretending that it doesn't matter.
That she can't climb that poverty ladder.
That she is starving and no one seems to care.
To them she's not there.
She thinks it's not fair,
Her life is going nowhere. Nowhere.
She cries for herself and all that she lost,
the pattern of going from Boss to Boss
until she lost
her career
. So she cries, silently,
but knows that one day she'll be free.
Not of this world,
but free of these streets.
