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I live exposed on dirty streets—
in plain sight, but invisible to you.
Glued to your bright screens, you scroll past my suffering.
Once I was one of you: working, laughing, spending—
my future felt wide and warm.
They fired me. She left. My father died.
Grief tipped me into a spiral: depression, despair.
The streets became home; the bottle, a companion.
Rock bottom was a contaminated patch beneath an old bridge,
rats for neighbors, filth my new cologne.
Beggars can’t be choosers? I never chose this.
It wasn’t in the plan.
A few from the local church reached a hand.
I still drink—less. I have a part-time job, a small room, even a love that arrived out of nowhere.
I’m better—less zombie, more human.
If you meet someone like me, don’t look away.
We’re people who took one or more wrong turns.
A smile, a token, a hand—these can lift us.
Believe in me.
Believe in my will to live and thrive—
Just like you believe in yours.
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