It's not always their fault
It's not always their fault
It's not always their fault, but...
The appropriate response is, usually silence.
There's a lot more to the picture, than we tend to actually see.
Like, there's a lot more to the river, behind a high mountain peak.
And there's a lot more to the puzzle, but we usually start with one piece.
See, most times, we end up looking at -- the cracked pavements, and dark alleyways, that smell like gunpowder; graffiti tags, marking gang signs. Beware -- of that old person laying flat beside a crack pipe: because Alcohol couldn't do the trick. Is it PTSD? No one knows, but that cardboard box could sure use a fix! And no! No one knows if they're still alive, just lying there, like a poisoned lab rat. Last night, sounds were heard, like scratching metal. Was it raccoons? Maybe. ...Or maybe it was just another person, tired, stumbling, trying to find dinner: they might have ended up eating that rotten tuna fish sandwich from the garbage can, because that's all they could afford.
These streets are mean, sometimes, unclean streets, where the fiends, cracked in their mind, speak, gibberish... Because that's all they know... They were abandoned by a society that says: it's not always their fault, but…
The appropriate response -- is usually silence.
Let’s not end there; let's break this down further. There’s actually more diversity of reasons then you've heard of: Not every homeless person got evicted, got convicted, is a lazy bum, just a fiend or a burglar. He or she could have been a 6 figure earner, a big-spitter, big hitter, Rollin on the river Tina turner; they could have been a breadwinner, a never-quitter, a benevolent, mystic learner... see, it's not always THEIR fault…
Maybe, this person was like a priest, they could move crowds; the masses would reach. Maybe, they were wise, and not just a geek, maybe she... used to be a model, the type to have her eyebrows on fleek. Maybe he, was community activist, a pastor that would teach; a missionary; an actor; a professor or athlete; a CEO, an executive with a nice family, a nice house & car, probably owned lottery. But hey... let's not talk about that. Let's talk about the squirrels and stray cats, the cockroaches and maze rats. Because the appropriate response, is usually silence.
And in the midst of that silence... Cries speak: Like shame, like pain, like stains, like no insurance for life, cuz – This life is a game... is this life? Don't ask me... see, I just write.
But, this poem goes out to everyone who feels deserted, alone, stranded, abandoned, and worst of all forgotten. This poem goes out to the homeless, the borderline homeless, and those that are recovering from homelessness. People like: The Aboriginals and native groups, the tom cruise minorities, abused by their authorities, foster kids; men & women who worked in the military, artists, writers, philosophers, see, these pilgrims vary. To the young pregnant mothers, young teenage girls with baby-daddies, young men and women caught up in drugs and gangs, alcoholics and substance abusers -- it's not always their fault -- What about the old people, who lost their families, those who were laid off too long, good-workers who lost their jobs, women that have been raped and/or abused, the mentally ill, the confused, the 9-5er's with 3 jobs & 24hr shifts (keep hustling), And last but not least... those people in life, who (for whatever reason) just don't have any friends. And Suicide… is usually the last option.
R.I.P. to the gravesite. No auction. Closed caption. But the truth is... it's not always THEIR fault, but hey,
The appropriate response… is usually silence.