This poem was written in the spring of 2024. It’s embarrassing to share in this rough of form. The inspiration were personal experiences with homelessness and passages from The Bible. Revisions of the poem will be added at a later date.

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There’s never a hero, 

Not really. 

There’s only ourselves 

If the mind and heart aren’t  

At war. 

Nobody will save you, 

Or perhaps you’ll be so lucky, 

Not likely. 

Preparation for your own success  

must be addressed, 

Or you’ll always be  

hard-pressed. 

When shit hits the fan  

and the floor 

Swept from under you, 

Did someone help collect  

what was salvageable 

From the wreckage? 

Or loot through and leave you 

Without a bandage to staunch the wound 

dripping all around? 

Without a drop of water to drink? 

Without a morsel of food to eat? 

Were you taken in and sheltered from the storm 

Or left to wander, shiftless in form?