Children of the street

I feel the sun on my back, burning a hole into my skin.
I know it's day.
I wake up wondering will I live today.
How long have I been away?
Are the children okay?
Will they too live to see another day?
We are children of the street.
Always fighting to see another day.

So many questions, so many choices.
Do the people even hear our small voices?
No, they don't even care.
They don't see us; to them we're nothing but air.

They don't see the lives that we lead or the tears which we bleed.
They choose not to see our cries as our final plea.
But it's too late now; the clock strikes six o' three.

The suns gone down.
Everyone's deserted town.
Except us, we were left here to drown.
Left to get run down.
Nobody cares if we're lying in the street face down.
Nobody cares if we're even found.
We ain't nothing but dirty ghetto kids, fighting to survive another round.

Night is now here.
We have nothing left to fear.
One by one we will all disappear.
Though it is still unclear why we were left here.

Children of the street.
Why are we the ones always left to get beat?
Nowhere for us to retreat.
There's only one way for us to be free.
We're left lying on the concrete.
We are the children of the street.