You feel your heart ache as you walk further down the street of sunny Los Angeles. It was supposed to be the city where dreams were made, but instead you were looking at a group of people that were so much less unfortunate that you. There was a group of five that were huddled around one garbage bag with cardboard signs in front of them, all giving a short description of their different situations. How could you not feel guilty as you suddenly felt the weight of your five packed shopping bags pulling at your arms?
The man was always there, always on that same street corner. Huddled up drinking coffee and staring at the people passing by. “Sir aren’t you cold?” she squeaked, looking at him. “Of course, but as you see I am homeless.” He replied, “I don’t want to burden anyone though. She handed him a hundred dollar bill and said “At least go have you a good meal, and call me if you need anything,” writing her number on a card.
I went to a rather expensive dinner event in support of homelessness once. We pecked at olive tapenade and châteaubriand while staring at photos of the “less fortunate”, wondering why we couldn’t picture ourselves in their shoes.
I never thought of it this way, until now. I am homeless. Not in body. I have a home. A family. A job. A sturdy roof over my head. My soul. My soul is what is homeless. My soul hovers aimlessly in my body and I feel as if it serves no purpose but to float there and confuse me. What is my purpose? Where can my soul find a home? Ive been thinking about it a lot. A man approached me today. He asked me to visit his Church. Is this a message maybe?
i want to be homeless and free so that i wont have to listen to the government or make money at a stupid job, wasting my time, doing things i don’t want to be doing. i wanna grow up and be a hobo, fuck what my parents think, fuck what they say, i will be free and they won’t! it will be the perfect day everyday. just sitting, hanging out, feeling what it feels like to just be a human being, nothing to worry about accept when i will eat.
homeless box top screwing the curb, rainwater falling like cinderblock tumble. a smell of beer/piss/damp. squishwalking down the street. can in hand, thousand yard stare. the car and the street, that’s the living room.
sad, alone, no roof over head, may be nothing to eat, no where to sleep, feeling hot, feeling cold, getting tanned, getting wet in the rain, feeling helpless, no home
The homeless man sat in a rosebud carriage and carried what his mother gave him the day he left town. “Take this,” she said, “don’t leave anywhere without taking it.” And here he sat with the thing his mother gave to him. But people stared at him. Not because of his homelessness, but because of that object. That thing. That bra.
my heart had been homeless for a while. it still is. it’s dwelled and sat and lingered and begged and danced and jigged and charmed and smiled and yet—homeless. one of those universal misfortunes, i suppose.
There was a man sitting on the side of the road. As I walked by him I was wondering what brought him here, what kind of deep struggle he may have encountered. I wanted to know his story and what brought him this way because he must have the wisdom of time. And then I heard say, in a delusional way “MY PANTIES ARE ON FIRE”
Lack of self-esteem. Lack of determination. Not wanting to think. Circumstances beyond control. A chance to teach others the meaning of life. A chance to reach out and help. A group of people with a sense of humor – dressing up as a plant and scaring people as they walk by.
A sad man who has to sit on the side of the street and beg people when he may have used to have a home or a family. This man could have been something great. I always want to know his story, why is he sitting on the side of the road. Why is he doing this, what is the bigger message. Then I hear him say, “Spongebob really is me!!!!”
A sad man who has to sit on the side of the street and beg people when he may have used to have a home or a family. This man could have been something great. I always want to know his story, why is he sitting on the side of the road. Why is he doing this, what is the bigger message. Then I hear him say, “Spongebob really is me!!!!”
The homeless man tottered toward Elizabeth. She was not prepared for him, and so she let out an ear splitting scream. When the homeless man bent down and pointed at the purse she had dropped, she felt properly embarrassed.
With the darkness of the town pressing down on him like a wet blanket, he curled up closer to the light pole. Decked out in a suit, golden jewelry, and a leather jacket, he was juxtaposed to the dirty, raunchy buildings surrounding him. Without another word, a bus pulls out in front of him, and he primped his perfect hair for another moment.
He surely didn’t seem the hobo, but coming home to a large mansion with nothing but heartless machines and objects was worse than sitting on the street, having to beg for money. At least as a man on the street, he can be shown kindness and compassion, even if only for a moment. The rich man is always homeless.
Why should excitement not have a place in my life?
Who am I to turn my back on such excitement
and leave it with no where to belong,
homeless and alone?
I used to carry hours
But now the years seem homeless
A moment or a decade
Tomorrow or forever
Who cares if they just slip away?
It matters more to chain them
In photographs and memories
Than to recognize their faults
High school. Traveled an hour each way. Tired, get back late. Try to live closer. college. Parents move. Do I live in Jersey, New York or Florida?
Lost my drivers License-where to get the new one mailed?
Homeless is what I never want to be. It is the one thing that keeps me going work every day. Home is love. Home is family. Without that, I would be lost.
The hobo sat thoughtfully in thought, pondering on how he went from top of the world to the bottom of the sea. He had lived in a mansion and now he called a trashcan home.
they walk along the dark street counting the lighted windows; eeny meeny miny mo, cupping their hands to the windows to see the trappings of couchs with human shaped lumps, noisy tvs and lamps on the table and realise that in this home, and in this one and this one, though there is people there, it’s home-less.
There are so many homeless people in the world. But what is their story? Did they lose a job and have no way of finding another. Do they have a family. Are they addicted to drugs. You never know. Sometimes you want badly to help but you have to think and worry about what may have gotten them there in the first place and are they going to continue down that road after been given a helping hand
Being a homeless person only proves how little humanity is left. People stumble over me in disgust, forgetting i’m a breathing, feeling person. Years ago I was a mortgage broker, but drug abuse left me without a family, money, or a home. I, too, have feelings. I, too, want to be loved.
the homeless are sad. they have nothing of their own but they know how to survive the tough situations they are put in. i believe they can be strong people and they are often stereotyped as drug addicts, but thats not always the case.
I wandered for hours before I finally saw the sign on the door. It said “you are free to a good home, and it is here.” I shrugged. It’s not as if I had any other options. I slowly opened the door. It creaked. The hinges were quite rusty, and I wondered if anyone was actually inside. “Hello?” I nearly whipserd . My throat was quite dry. There was no answer. I looked around. Starting today, I’m a squatter.
I have never been homeless.
My heart aches when I see someone who is.
I’ve only ever seen a few homeless people in my life.
I know I can never do anything to fix that.
But I can do my hardest to try.
He came from out of the box, as filthy and smelly as you’d expect. Then after him the cat, always with him, always watching. Not the normal watching that a cat does, but the kind of thing you’d expect from a royal guard or presidential security, too intense to be friendly.
When I see a homeless person I wonder why they are homeless. I wonder if they really are homeless. I want to help them, but feel that I can’t help everyone. If I had millions of dollars, I would help as many homeless people as I possibly could. God Bless them!
hobo
no food, no shelter, need money, gloves, sad, trains, candy mountain, hobo friends, hot dogs dogs,cats, beards, midgets, America, Debt ,Philadelphia, large cities, selling things for money
He walked around a bit, and suddenly it hit him. It wasn’t instantaneous at first, but then he realized. He was homeless. He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t talk. He couldn’t walk. He sat, and waited. Waited for some miracle to happen, anything to escape this moment.
homelessness sucks it’s unfortunate that some people are born homeless or end up homeless by fate and others don’t. I think that it wouldn’t be great to be homeless and that we would live in a much better world if we could get rid of homelessness. I don’t know what else to say that is productive this is such a hard topic: the fact that people are homeless. when other people have WAY to much.
A home is somewhere that you feel comfortable. It envelops you in a sense of familiarity and you feel as though you can shed all the necessary layers that society demands of us. It’s where many become their truest self. Though my home is always empty. A family of flight is mine. An occasional hello or watching a t.v. show together is the best I get. Alone time can only be appreciated when you live amongst others. Am I right?
She pulled her shawl harder around herself and stepped around a puddle in the middle of the stret, hoping that she wouldn’t splash her bare legs with too much mud.
She looked right and left as she crossed the street, then tried to find the sign that would lead her to the place where Adrian Jamison lived.
At least, perhaps, he’d give her some money to stay at an inn while she tried to take in sewing in order to augment her minuscule earnings.
The sounds of cars was a constant echo. Like the sounds into some lopsided f-ed up womb or something. But maybe that was all the alcohol talking. Mostly what got to me was the pressure. The constant knowledge that any time at any moment I would be out again. Left to the warriors of the cleanse, and there was no one, any where to stop it.
You feel your heart ache as you walk further down the street of sunny Los Angeles. It was supposed to be the city where dreams were made, but instead you were looking at a group of people that were so much less unfortunate that you. There was a group of five that were huddled around one garbage bag with cardboard signs in front of them, all giving a short description of their different situations. How could you not feel guilty as you suddenly felt the weight of your five packed shopping bags pulling at your arms?
The man was always there, always on that same street corner. Huddled up drinking coffee and staring at the people passing by. “Sir aren’t you cold?” she squeaked, looking at him. “Of course, but as you see I am homeless.” He replied, “I don’t want to burden anyone though. She handed him a hundred dollar bill and said “At least go have you a good meal, and call me if you need anything,” writing her number on a card.
I went to a rather expensive dinner event in support of homelessness once. We pecked at olive tapenade and châteaubriand while staring at photos of the “less fortunate”, wondering why we couldn’t picture ourselves in their shoes.
I never thought of it this way, until now. I am homeless. Not in body. I have a home. A family. A job. A sturdy roof over my head. My soul. My soul is what is homeless. My soul hovers aimlessly in my body and I feel as if it serves no purpose but to float there and confuse me. What is my purpose? Where can my soul find a home? Ive been thinking about it a lot. A man approached me today. He asked me to visit his Church. Is this a message maybe?
i want to be homeless and free so that i wont have to listen to the government or make money at a stupid job, wasting my time, doing things i don’t want to be doing. i wanna grow up and be a hobo, fuck what my parents think, fuck what they say, i will be free and they won’t! it will be the perfect day everyday. just sitting, hanging out, feeling what it feels like to just be a human being, nothing to worry about accept when i will eat.
homeless box top screwing the curb, rainwater falling like cinderblock tumble. a smell of beer/piss/damp. squishwalking down the street. can in hand, thousand yard stare. the car and the street, that’s the living room.
sad, alone, no roof over head, may be nothing to eat, no where to sleep, feeling hot, feeling cold, getting tanned, getting wet in the rain, feeling helpless, no home
I didn’t believe her, but when I got home I found my clothes on the lawn. She told me to never come back. How could Mom do this to me?
The homeless man sat in a rosebud carriage and carried what his mother gave him the day he left town. “Take this,” she said, “don’t leave anywhere without taking it.” And here he sat with the thing his mother gave to him. But people stared at him. Not because of his homelessness, but because of that object. That thing. That bra.
my heart had been homeless for a while. it still is. it’s dwelled and sat and lingered and begged and danced and jigged and charmed and smiled and yet—homeless. one of those universal misfortunes, i suppose.
There was a man sitting on the side of the road. As I walked by him I was wondering what brought him here, what kind of deep struggle he may have encountered. I wanted to know his story and what brought him this way because he must have the wisdom of time. And then I heard say, in a delusional way “MY PANTIES ARE ON FIRE”
Lack of self-esteem. Lack of determination. Not wanting to think. Circumstances beyond control. A chance to teach others the meaning of life. A chance to reach out and help. A group of people with a sense of humor – dressing up as a plant and scaring people as they walk by.
A sad man who has to sit on the side of the street and beg people when he may have used to have a home or a family. This man could have been something great. I always want to know his story, why is he sitting on the side of the road. Why is he doing this, what is the bigger message. Then I hear him say, “Spongebob really is me!!!!”
A sad man who has to sit on the side of the street and beg people when he may have used to have a home or a family. This man could have been something great. I always want to know his story, why is he sitting on the side of the road. Why is he doing this, what is the bigger message. Then I hear him say, “Spongebob really is me!!!!”
The homeless man tottered toward Elizabeth. She was not prepared for him, and so she let out an ear splitting scream. When the homeless man bent down and pointed at the purse she had dropped, she felt properly embarrassed.
i see them on the streets.
old chinese women.
they remind me of grandma.
seeing them searching through trash cans, selling greens.
it breaks my heart.
With the darkness of the town pressing down on him like a wet blanket, he curled up closer to the light pole. Decked out in a suit, golden jewelry, and a leather jacket, he was juxtaposed to the dirty, raunchy buildings surrounding him. Without another word, a bus pulls out in front of him, and he primped his perfect hair for another moment.
He surely didn’t seem the hobo, but coming home to a large mansion with nothing but heartless machines and objects was worse than sitting on the street, having to beg for money. At least as a man on the street, he can be shown kindness and compassion, even if only for a moment. The rich man is always homeless.
Why should excitement not have a place in my life?
Who am I to turn my back on such excitement
and leave it with no where to belong,
homeless and alone?
I used to carry hours
But now the years seem homeless
A moment or a decade
Tomorrow or forever
Who cares if they just slip away?
It matters more to chain them
In photographs and memories
Than to recognize their faults
To give a dollar, or to not give a dollar. To sneer. To smirk. He must be lazy. Or crazy. Or poor. His fault. Not Mine. Not my problem, right?
High school. Traveled an hour each way. Tired, get back late. Try to live closer. college. Parents move. Do I live in Jersey, New York or Florida?
Lost my drivers License-where to get the new one mailed?
Homeless is what I never want to be. It is the one thing that keeps me going work every day. Home is love. Home is family. Without that, I would be lost.
The hobo sat thoughtfully in thought, pondering on how he went from top of the world to the bottom of the sea. He had lived in a mansion and now he called a trashcan home.
they walk along the dark street counting the lighted windows; eeny meeny miny mo, cupping their hands to the windows to see the trappings of couchs with human shaped lumps, noisy tvs and lamps on the table and realise that in this home, and in this one and this one, though there is people there, it’s home-less.
It’s about roots. You can have a roof but without roots you’ll never have a home.
There are so many homeless people in the world. But what is their story? Did they lose a job and have no way of finding another. Do they have a family. Are they addicted to drugs. You never know. Sometimes you want badly to help but you have to think and worry about what may have gotten them there in the first place and are they going to continue down that road after been given a helping hand
Being a homeless person only proves how little humanity is left. People stumble over me in disgust, forgetting i’m a breathing, feeling person. Years ago I was a mortgage broker, but drug abuse left me without a family, money, or a home. I, too, have feelings. I, too, want to be loved.
hobo joe, hillbilly, scum, loser, poor, sad, old man,
the homeless are sad. they have nothing of their own but they know how to survive the tough situations they are put in. i believe they can be strong people and they are often stereotyped as drug addicts, but thats not always the case.
I wandered for hours before I finally saw the sign on the door. It said “you are free to a good home, and it is here.” I shrugged. It’s not as if I had any other options. I slowly opened the door. It creaked. The hinges were quite rusty, and I wondered if anyone was actually inside. “Hello?” I nearly whipserd . My throat was quite dry. There was no answer. I looked around. Starting today, I’m a squatter.
I have never been homeless.
My heart aches when I see someone who is.
I’ve only ever seen a few homeless people in my life.
I know I can never do anything to fix that.
But I can do my hardest to try.
He came from out of the box, as filthy and smelly as you’d expect. Then after him the cat, always with him, always watching. Not the normal watching that a cat does, but the kind of thing you’d expect from a royal guard or presidential security, too intense to be friendly.
When I see a homeless person I wonder why they are homeless. I wonder if they really are homeless. I want to help them, but feel that I can’t help everyone. If I had millions of dollars, I would help as many homeless people as I possibly could. God Bless them!
hobo
no food, no shelter, need money, gloves, sad, trains, candy mountain, hobo friends, hot dogs dogs,cats, beards, midgets, America, Debt ,Philadelphia, large cities, selling things for money
He walked around a bit, and suddenly it hit him. It wasn’t instantaneous at first, but then he realized. He was homeless. He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t talk. He couldn’t walk. He sat, and waited. Waited for some miracle to happen, anything to escape this moment.
homelessness sucks it’s unfortunate that some people are born homeless or end up homeless by fate and others don’t. I think that it wouldn’t be great to be homeless and that we would live in a much better world if we could get rid of homelessness. I don’t know what else to say that is productive this is such a hard topic: the fact that people are homeless. when other people have WAY to much.
A home is somewhere that you feel comfortable. It envelops you in a sense of familiarity and you feel as though you can shed all the necessary layers that society demands of us. It’s where many become their truest self. Though my home is always empty. A family of flight is mine. An occasional hello or watching a t.v. show together is the best I get. Alone time can only be appreciated when you live amongst others. Am I right?
She pulled her shawl harder around herself and stepped around a puddle in the middle of the stret, hoping that she wouldn’t splash her bare legs with too much mud.
She looked right and left as she crossed the street, then tried to find the sign that would lead her to the place where Adrian Jamison lived.
At least, perhaps, he’d give her some money to stay at an inn while she tried to take in sewing in order to augment her minuscule earnings.
She knocked at his door.
the homeless club sat in the grassy overgrown field on a fuzzy felt blanket soaking up the sun and ingesting greasy drippy cheese pizza.
The sounds of cars was a constant echo. Like the sounds into some lopsided f-ed up womb or something. But maybe that was all the alcohol talking. Mostly what got to me was the pressure. The constant knowledge that any time at any moment I would be out again. Left to the warriors of the cleanse, and there was no one, any where to stop it.