Cold City Streets

I've never before heard the rain pound so hard
On that solid concrete ground,
Where everyday I've lived my life alone,
Surviving on dreams that I may be found.

The wind stung my cheek like my father's hand
Had done on my sixth birthday.
Exactly eight days before I lost my home,
My mother, and my life, in such a brutal way.

It's been twenty years I've survived now.
Somehow, I'm battling on.
I ask myself a question of "How?" each day,
As I have no clue of what's keeping me strong.

Yet it was just the other day, I had a realisation:
That my life was actually bright.
The beggars are family, birds are my friends;
They're the ones that stay when it's dark at night.

The general public stare straight at me as they pass,
Judging me, from my greasy hair and rags for clothes.
Yet I find I don't really care, not at all,
They can do what they like, they'll just never know.

Do you know what goes on inside a 6-year-old's mind
As her fathers' words play through her head?
"You're going to grow up a tart, you filthy b.itch,
I wish you nothing other than dead."

I never even knew the meaning of those words,
But his anger was enough of an explanation.
He threw me out the door, as my mother looked away,
From then on nature was my salvation.

These cold city streets may seem chilling,
Where anything you could think of can roam.
Yet behind the darkness; the coldness, it's bright,
And is the only true place I can call home.