Cardboard Purgatory


The Homeless. Everyone agrees it’s a problem yet no one has a solution. Many of us would refuse to walk an inch in their shoes but most of them would walk a mile with blistered bare feet just to have a pair of our shoes. They are looked down on, looked at with disgust by many, looked at with sympathy or empathy by others. Most of us walk past them pretending not to see them, or maybe throwing them a bit of spare change, but seldom do any of us stop and talk. Or better yet, listen…..


How did I get here?
Too many the days of pain
Too long the pain of days
Was what brought me to this
Alone in the jaws of depravity
In the confines of hopelessness
Left naked and empty of hand
Crouched in the shadow of despair
Possessing only the gifts of the Earth
And the stipends of the caring few
While the gates in my face are slammed shut
The gates of my heart remain ever open
What little I have I share with the world
But the world doesn’t often reciprocate
Ridiculed and held in distain from on high
I am the dust beneath their Persian rugs
Catching scraps from their linen tablecloths
Judged as lazy, useless, and worthless
Praying the generous winds of humanity
Will lift me away to place I can call home
And free me from this cardboard purgatory



Spit it BeBop Street Flow…..

Listen up to the story of existing in purgatory inside a cardboard dormitory
Where guts ain’t got no glory dying is pretty but livings gory
A metaphoric allegory that ends in a repository
Am I striking a chord here?
My shelter made of cardboard is an upgrade from the psyche ward
Got no money can’t afford more been abandoned by the good lord
My universe yet un explored I was floored
Had to fall on my sword
Guess I got a fitting reward but I hate falls
Want to tear down the corrugated walls
But that takes protocols and balls and my balls are all I got left
Feeling bereft because I turned right when I shoulda turned left
So I turned to theft
I was busted disgusted and couldn’t be trusted so I fled
In days past my life seemed complete, had the world upon my feet
Riding high living sweet a big time player playing Wall Street
Until my defeat
Took quite a fall and lost it all, took both eyes off of the ball
Dropped like a giant cannon ball into a tub of alcohol
Anyhow, that’s all I can recall
Lost my job and lost my home lost my family was all alone
They stripped me to the bone locked me up in the crazy dome
Then set me free
Below the Bourgeoisie
No longer have home so with homeless do I roam
Stockholm syndrome
Misfortune as my captor, my pastor and my master
Lead me straight into disaster faster than a slick Bastard
So I got plastered
To be clear it was wine and beer until my problems became severe
Then I blazed the drug frontier and all my worries disappeared
Acted cavalier
But it gets you in the end destroys your life and all your friends
No matter how hard you pretend all the shit comes back again
Only worse
Life becomes perverse obtuse and terse
You’re immersed you can’t converse the only way out is in a hearse
So you ride alone




How did they end up here on “skid row”? Some are simply born into poverty and never have the advantages of good schooling we take for granted. Illness, loss of a loved one, domestic abuse, mental illness, PTSD. Some came back from fighting a war and were simply left alone in the cold. Some simply couldn’t find work. The point is don’t assume they put themselves there from lack of will, or unwillingness to do even menial tasks. Most homeless humans have stories to share that could curl self righteous hair.

So don’t point a finger and yell that lazy bitch got no will power, that’s all. Pull themselves up by their bootstraps and face the world, get a job instead of getting high. But getting high isn’t why most of them do it, they do it to numb the pain, the physical, the mental, and most of all the emotional. Bad decisions often lead to worse decisions and the dominoes of life continue to fall, a little harder each time. Judge not lest Ye be judged…… Live and Love in Peace



World Humanitarian Day, Pay It Forward

a world



Today is a day to recognize Humanitarian workers around the world, so what could be more of an honor than to help their altruistic compassion become infectious by paying it forward…….

There are many ways to pay it forward, not everyone who has experiences a string of bad luck are looking for a handout, feeling the world owes them something. Some people simply want someone, anyone, to listen to their saga, free of judgment, and lend an empathetic ear, maybe share a cup of coffee. I came across such an encounter upon a trip to LA a few years ago.

LA is not a place to be without a car but that’s how we found ourselves, in a hotel on Sepulveda Blvd doing a PR event at the Emmy’s. The hotel was very nice, like most in LA and it had all the amenities you would hope for. But we are never happy just soaking up the luxuries a hotel has to offer, we prefer to experience LA from the ground up which we quickly learned meant sprinting across intersections when the walk sign was lit because it began blinking don’t walk about three seconds after it came on. Crossing the roads were what I imagine it would be like crossing the Indy 500 with six lanes of traffic and drivers poised at their accelerators. What the Hell, you only live once or perhaps only die once crossing LA traffic, but we did want to have some breakfast somewhere away from the hotel where the normal, or actually abnormal Los Angelians had breakfast. We took our chances.

As we began our journey our first encounter was of a man in a bowler style hat, a tattered suit coat, and tattered pants sleeping on the grass just off the sidewalk. We bent down and asked him if he was okay and he just smiled and said, “Oh yea, everything is fine.” He then rolled over and went back to sleep. Being New Yorkers we were quite accustomed to this type of encounter but none the less thought it best to check on him. He seemed okay, perhaps a bit sleepy but he wasn’t hurting anyone and was cautious to be off the sidewalk. IN New York City walking is just what you do, not traveling hidden in cars and we walked just about anywhere and everywhere we wanted so we trudged on for an LA experience. We found a quaint little café, had breakfast, and people watched for about an hour.

Wanting to completely absorb the culture we just walked around observing, no where to go and nothing special to do. The sun was beginning to wake up in all it’s majesty I assume after consuming a Grande cup of solar coffee and was now beating down hard making it very hot. We stopped off and got some water then continued our walking tour of who knows where Los Angeles. Maureen wanted another tea so we stopped of at a sort of LA Starbucks. While she got a tea I got another water and went outside to soak up the local atmosphere.

The very first person I saw was the now wide away sleeping man we had encountered earlier, whose name I found out was Benjamin. I ventured over and asked how he was doing. I passed him my water not like some high and mighty savior but just as I would to a friend I came across. He accepted and thanked me and to my surprise he offered far more conversation than I had expected, telling me of his trials and tribulations back home in Indiana some thirty five years ago, and how he had come to LA hoping to make it in films. He began as a film runner, running films from one studio to another in the hopes of being discovered but he never was. Then a downsizing left him jobless. He was living in an SRO, or Single Room Occupancy hotel which was hard enough, but six months after losing his job and trying desperately to get work doing anything he was evicted. He spent one night in a shelter and woke up with nothing but the clothes he slept in because in the night someone or ones poached all his meager positions save for his bowler which he wears proudly to this day.
He finished the water then continued his story. Not being able to put on a clean shirt and pants made his interviewing harder and less likely until it got to the point that the smell of his dirty clothes prevented him from even getting to the interview stage. He eventually gave up and was now homeless and penniless in Los Angeles, he panhandled a bit, sang for coins, was willing to any job, but without the luxury of a bed, alarm clock, and shower it was difficult. To me those things were just a normal part of life, one of the many things I take for granted that are luxuries to Benjamin. Even without what most of us consider the basics of everyday life his attitude was amazing. He didn’t whine although he did at times seem unhappily nostalgic, and he wasn’t looking for sympathy, just a friend to talk to for a little while. I became that friend. Ten or twenty minutes of my time, a few seconds mili-seconds in the scheme of life meant a lot to Benjamin. He was happy just to share a bottle of water and some company.

Benjamin never asked me for any money. Maureen came over with a muffin she bought for me and without missing a beat offered it to Benjamin instead. His eyes said everything that needed to be said. The fact that two strangers took the time to listen to his story and offered him something without his asking lit a fire of gratitude in his eyes. Before he left us he gave us the rundown of the area, which area’s were safe, which were shady, and which section was known for shoot outs like the one last night. He gave us a five minute tour of this section of LA and then thanked us to go about his daily business, with a big smile on his face. I distracted him while Maureen slipped a ten dollar bill in his dirty suit coat pocket, and maybe he’ll buy something to eat or maybe he’ll buy some alcohol, I really don’t think it matters because with all the life bullshit he has encountered he deserves a little of both. I won’t judge and I hope you won’t either.

The real point is this, we can walk past those in need, I have, we can close our eyes and pretend they don’t exist, I have, we can pass judgment and decide they were probably always worthless and lazy, or we can bring them a muffin, or a hamburger, maybe a drink, or maybe even sacrifice a few moments from our luxurious busy lives to lend an ear and hear their story. Remember, many of those homeless are Vets, so don’t go waving your flag and carrying on about how big a patriot you are because you post I support our troops memes on social media, do something to help. Actions speak louder than words. And thank you to all the selfless humanitarians around the world. PEACE

Forgotten How To Care




Where do the unfortunate children live?

Charred basements

Broken windows

Hinge less doors

Cracked walls

Torn up floors

Abandoned palaces

Way beyond our gated paradises

Far away so we won’t have to see





Where do the unfortunate children play?

Septic swamplands

Dead grass

Scorched earth

Forgotten swing sets

Junkyard Hell

Running on decay

Chewing paint chips

Shredded promise soufflé

Far away

Not near you

Hidden from our guarded suburbs



If we sweep them under the rug will they still exist?

Can we hide them away from where the moneys made?

Shield us from their tears

Remove their squalor from our sight

Pretend they’re not still here

Hide away their despair

Where we never have to see them

Where we no longer look

Yet still hear them cry

Without listening

Without asking why



Why should I have to share what’s mine just because their lazy

Its not my problem not my fault

Let someone else foot their bills

Let someone else buy their shoes

Put food into their bellies

Shelter them from storms

The big game is on TV tonight

My fridge is full of excuses

I have no time to hear the plight

Let me watch the latest shows

Not some documentary to remind me I once cared

At a time when I believed in caring





Anyway that was a long time ago

I was filled with lofty ideals then

In youth I believed in so much

It seemed we all had a dream

A vapor really

Breath on glass

Bold and large

Mirror dreams

Wiped away with self ambition

Dissipated with fumes of self indulgences

Into nothing

Compassion disappeared from my looking glass

Leaving a reflection of myself

The face of one who forgot

A face of shame

No salary can buy it away

No ambition can veil the self contempt

No status symbol can wash away regret

Of forgetting how to care

Shame on those of us who abandon our hidden neighbors

So wrapped up in ourselves

That we have forgotten how to care

Remember the days

we all promised

To lend hand

To wipe their tears





Jack In The Box, A Life In Cardboard Purgatory


This story is a bit long but its a socially important story of struggle and unfair judgment designed to help shed some light on a deeply disturbing problem so IMHO worth the time spent. As tempting as it is to turn it into a political wage equality statement it goes far beyond that, beyond the argument of entitlement vrs. privilege, it’s a plea for us as humans to return to humanity. This is a story of real lives, real struggles, and issues about the need of not just throwing money at the impoverished or disadvantaged but understanding, educating, guiding, and offering a fair and equal opportunity to all of us to live productive lives in a society that values life. All life…One world, One Peace.
By J.T. Hilltop
Never judge a book by it’s cover. Check that. Don’t freaking judge anything at all books or people until you truly understand them. Like the famous Native American proverb says “Never criticize a man until you’ve walked a mile in his moccasins.” There are a number of variations of that proverb and any one of them will do it just means walk the walk before you talk shit. The handsome business man next to you on the train could be a serial killer planning his attack on you. The nice sweet looking old lady could be sticking knitting needles into her cats when she gets home. That mean looking dirty hippie could have a full time productive job. There are low income people who do more for their communities than so called upstanding citizens and phony philanthropists who couldn’t care less about the people they gave to as long as everyone knows how helpful and considerate they are. They don’t even walk a single step they pay someone else to walk the mile for them.
When my first child, my daughter was born I wanted to commemorate her birth by getting her name tattooed in a rose on my arm. So at two weeks old the very first outing my baby girl had was to a tattoo parlor on Long Island that was filled with half a dozen very tough looking mean looking bikers. When they saw this two week old little child they became total mushes. They ewwwed and ahhhed and acted more like we were at a baby shower than a tattoo parlor. So instead of hiding my baby in a blanket I let them make cooing noises and fuss over her like a grandparent would. Who am I to judge?
Not judging was the biggest lesson I took from an adventure I went on after making a long series of bad decisions and having even worse luck. It took scraping the bottom of the beer barrel and finding myself constantly at another self imposed dead end for me to decide it was time to make a U-turn. After a series of misfortunate circumstances I found myself totally alone somewhere in Georgia, some 600 miles from home with nothing but a few bucks in my pocket and the clothes on my back. I had slept the night at a Salvation Army shelter and while I laid in a cot instead of focusing on how and why I ended up lost, broke, and homeless I convinced myself I could turn all my disadvantages around. With the little money I had I would buy a pencil and a notepad and transcribe wherever my journey led me and go out in search of Americana. Someday I’ll write a book. I’d find work along the way teaching myself how to survive and transcribe all my experiences. And so I did.
When I set out on my hitchhiking/transcribing adventure I thought it would be the story of me, how I turned my life around while traveling and learning. I quickly realized however that my adventure would have little to do with me but everything to do with the people I met along the way. And it became obvious the first day. When I left that Salvation Army revived with a shower and a hot cup of coffee I wasn’t even sure where I was going. Maybe back to New York, maybe to Arizona, or maybe I’ll head straight on to California. I was playing each card as it was dealt to me, no plan, no direction, I just wanted to see different places and write about little town America on the way. I used half of my life savings and bought a notebook and pencil.
The very first person I came across was a man I guessed to be about my age sprawled out on the grass seemingly passed out from drinking and baking in the sun. I gave him a little shake to see if he was okay. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. On closer inspection the man was probably younger than me with at least three days worth of stubble hiding his reddened weathered face. Neither the stubble nor the redness could hide his eyes though which were as bloodshot as a blushing beet. But it was more than that. His eyes also made him look a hundred years old, solemn yet unwise with nothing left in him but the ability to reflect inaccurately on his past. He coughed to clear his throat then spat a huge something across the lawn as he stood up. At first he wanted nothing to do with me having mistaken me for another Bible Belt wannabe Christian savior saving his soul and helping him to find salvation through religion. I assured him I was not in fact looking to help him or anyone because I have had enough trouble helping myself and that I never did find salvation in any religion. All I wanted to do was meet people and write about the experience. He offered up an invitation into his world and instructed me to follow him. I didn’t realize at that time but he would help me walk the mile.
I followed behind him while sizing him up with my pre-conceived notions. A homeless young man with a serious drinking problem who would rather get drunk than find work. He was dirty and unkempt with the stench of stale smoke and alcohol trailing behind him like smelly ducklings following the imprint of a mama duck with irritable bowl syndrome. He managed to stay ahead of the wafts of stench but many of them darted directly into my nasal cavity to set up camp in my olfactory glands causing me to wonder if I had already made another poor choice. I wondered why he didn’t just get cleaned up, find a job somewhere, anywhere, doing anything. He was young, seemed relatively strong, and I sensed at least a basic level of education. We walked about ten minutes then through a hole in a fence and finally to an area under a highway overpass. The sight was unsettling. It was a commune of the homeless, an urban campground of cardboard boxes, makeshift tents, piles of blankets or just piles of whatever, all types of homeless nests where everyone carved out their own living area. Like an office cubicle each person had their own territory with their own personal mementos, old torn photo’s, broken statuettes, any remnant that brings a shard of happy memories or a thread of hope. People here used shopping carts as if they were pioneer chuck wagons loaded with all kinds of stuff. Some had clothes hanging on strings between tree’s or posts, a makeshift grill here a three legged dinner table there, whatever resourceful use they could find from the discarded junk of suburban life. A commune of displaced humans seeking shelter from the storm. They mostly knew each other and I stood out as an obvious outcast and I would continue to be an outcast in their eyes until I walked the mile.
I began talking with the people living here in Spivakville (Named for a John Spivak a local inhabitant many years ago who was a champion for the poor and mistreated during the depression) I was expecting to find a profound level of hopelessness but what I walked away with was a profound sense of sadness with seeds of hope looking for a little empathy to help it grow. A few felt hopeless but for the most part it was the feeling of abandonment which was the more dominant emotion. Most were abandoned or mistreated at home or in school, laughed at, scorned at, and forgotten or looked down on by society. Not entitled, not looking for an easy way out, just looking for a fair shake, an opportunity for change. The worst thing for me was what they mostly received was pre-conceived notions like the mistaken ones I had leveled at a man I knew nothing about. I couldn’t give him a job, I couldn’t give him money, but if nothing else I could invest some of my time to hear his story. Jack shone a light on life that had me feeling shamed for having judged him but newly educated and enlightened.
His real name is Sam but since he came to Spivakville he’s been called Jack, short for Jack in the box because his first night he slept in a cardboard box that sat upright making him stick his head out like a Jack in the box. The name took instantly and he never corrected them. My guess is because for the first time maybe in his life he was in a group of people who made him feel like he belonged unconditionally, like he was accepted for himself. Jack crossed the border from South Carolina to start a new life in Georgia. In Grahamsville, SC he was beaten repeatedly by his step father and tended to his alcoholic mother along with two older siblings until he could no longer take it. He saved up some cash, took a bus to Augusta and got a room in a single room occupancy hotel that charges by the week. He had a job as a line cook at a local restaurant within a week. He was on his own and he was surviving. He fell in love with one of the waitresses. Her story was similar to his except she was still living in an abusive home. Together they vowed to help each other rise above the filth of abusive life and begin a new one together. A couple deeply in love and deeply dependant on each other emotionally.
One day she didn’t show up for work and Sam got worried. On his break he ran over to her house but on the way was stopped by her sister who told him she was in the hospital, had been struck by a car and was in intensive care. Disregarding work he went straight to the hospital and sure enough she was there and in real bad shape. He convinced a nurse with the help of his girlfriends sister to let him in to see her. The last vision he had of the love of his life was a battered beaten face and an array of tubes coming from various machines and an IV pole. He never even had the chance to say goodbye because she died a few hours later not having woken up from her coma. Along with his girlfriend Sam’s hope died as well. In desperate need of a friend or shoulder to cry on Sam did what he thought was the next best thing. He bought a bottle of vodka and went back to his room.
Over the next few days he only left that room to use the bathroom down the hall or to go to the liquor store. It wasn’t long before he ran out of money, constantly drinking and eating donuts to survive. He knew it was the worst diet possible but he really didn’t care about much of anything. After a week and a half he finally realized he needed to get back into life. He made his play to get his shit together, showered shaved and went back to the restaurant to beg for his job back. The manager didn’t want to hear about it because he never even called or let them know what was going on. He had no opening but if one came up he would consider him because he was after all a really good worker. He took his final paycheck and went to a bar. When he returned to his hotel that night the clerk, who had always engaged in conversation with Sam, had a saddened look on his face. It appeared the hotel had changed his lock and removed all his belongings which were in a closet in a large trash bag. The desk clerk was directed to deny Sam entrance unless he paid up his bill and another week in advance. Sam didn’t even have enough money to pay his back rents so he reluctantly grabbed the bag and left. The empathetic clerk informed him of a men’s shelter in town where he could stay until he figured out what to do.
Sam left that hotel with everything he owned in a trash bag. His life had been reduced to a Hefty bag full with some clothes, a radio, a hotplate, toothbrush, shampoo. As if that wasn’t deflating enough in it’s own right, when he woke up the next morning on a cheap cot in the men’s shelter, nothing was left in his trash bag under his bed except a few dirty socks and a half used bar of soap. During the night his belongings had been raided and that was all they left him. He moved into the street.
He slept behind a gas station in an abandoned car and used the rest room as his bathroom. Washed in the sink as best he could and shaved whenever possible with only water and an old razor. He went out looking for work but without a plug for an alarm clock, or the clock for that matter, going to interviews on time was a challenge. Add to that interviewing in the same dirty clothes traveling with a profound body odor it wasn’t long before he wasn’t even granted interviews. He couldn’t get a job because everyone hiring saw him as a dirty lazy bum, much like I had earlier. It was at that point I began feeling like a complete ass. Here I had judged him harshly before knowing his story, and now upon hearing it not only could I relate, but I could imagine that happening to me or any number of my friends. What a shit I was for assuming he had just been drinking his life away because I forgot to walk the mile.
Out on the streets he befriended a young man named Corky who schooled him on street life, how to panhandle, how to swindle, how to hide from the police, all the essentials of surviving the street. He had already learned not to leave anything of value unattended. Corky brought him around to Spivakville, showed him a free spot he could camp out on and pointed to cardboard box, “Cardboard acts like an insulator, it’ll keep you warm and dry if it don’t rain too hard. Until you can build a cloth home you should live in the box.” Sam grabbed the box, put it in his new spot and followed his only friend around the commune to meet everyone. That night Sam slept in the cardboard box as suggested but not knowing anything about being homeless he slept in it standing up vertically. The next morning when he popped his head out of the box Corky and the people around began laughing as Corky yelled, “Hey, it’s Jack In The Box” . Even Sam laughed. It earned him a new nickname, a good feeling, and a new sense of belonging. He had friends now, not one of which would ever judge him. Everyone at the homeless encampments has walked the mile.
Jack introduced me to many of his friends who came from all walks of life. Corky was once a promising comedian but lack of work and a girlfriend who introduced him to the needle ruined his act. A true character Corky seemed always ready to make others laugh to brighten their day even though his days are spent in constant darkness. I met Dennis and Sandy who had their house foreclosed on them because Dennis could no longer work construction due to an accident outside of work. Still in love but a completely different life from what they had before. Sandy pointed to an older black woman, “That there is Cookie, her own father pimped her out on her 14th birthday. Onlyest life she ever know was a life of drugs. Half the people here been crack addicts or junkies at one point, some still are. They sell they bodies or give sexual favors for either drugs or something to eat. Ain’t a single on of them say that’s they goal but it ain’t always about choice JT, y’all makes sure you put that in yore book.” I promised I would quote her on that. Next I was schooled in street cons from Slick, whose nickname was well deserved. He sold life insurance, had a house and a wife, sports car, and lost it all because he fell prey the perils of cocaine. He used the money people were giving him for insurance to go on three or four day benders of cocaine. Just an average guy who couldn’t keep away from coke. Everyone has a story, a beginning, a time when they understood what promise was. Everyone one of them hearts of gold. None of them wished to be here. Some came out of the womb at a disadvantage, some were forced out into the streets as kids, and some drove themselves to rock bottom but truthfully not one of them belonged here. Victims of circumstance, of environment, or just being born into a world that offered them nothing but scorn.
Most depressing was the amount of vets living here. All the flag waving and “thank you for your service” and “I support the troops” haven’t helped them at all. To them it’s all bullshit and lip service from the civilians who want to make themselves feel better, like proclaiming support on bumper sticker proves how much they care about the vets and validates their gratitude as payment enough. They don’t sit down and hear what the vets say because they don’t have the time. They look and sound crazy from shell shock or PTSD. Besides war is ugly and they would rather not hear about how truly horrible it really is and some of the things they saw and did. No the vets don’t want your verbal support they want medical attention, jobs, homes, they want to forget the horrible things they saw and did and just go back to living normal lives. They want to live without having nightmares every night. Yet now their normal is panhandling while living below poverty standards. Thanks for your support! They have walked the mile, many times, only to come home and find that others back home haven’t even recognized the fact that there is a mile to walked. Shame on us all.
In the end the common theme is in what the homeless really need. Some support, maybe learn a trade or get a break. Instead they get looked down on by most of society who won’t take a minute of there lives for the lazy free loaders who do nothing but look for handouts. Too many of us condemn them instantly, disdainful of them for not having money yet doing drugs or drinking, likes that’s a privilege only for the well off. You say we should give them drug tests before giving them welfare but I say no problem when you’re ready to do the same to all the wealthy and CEO’s who get tax breaks. I want to make sure they aren’t misusing the money we give them which even without a math degree I can state with confidence comes to far more dollars than we give to the impoverished.
In all my travels I have met many people who are reformed drug addicts or alcoholics both the well off and the poor. Bad luck has no prejudice. The big difference is the well off have family or friends, or at the very least one person who not only believed in them but got them to believe in themselves. I can tell you from experience that once you start to believe you can find yourself in a bottle, or a vial of pills, or even a syringe it’s very easy to lose yourself completely. At first it’s not a downward spiral it’s just a misstep, getting a kick. No harm no foul. Before long that misstep becomes your reality and you find yourself on a wrong path. Before you know it you’re so far down that path you don’t even recognize it, you don’t know where you are or who you are. You no longer even recognize yourself, why there’s an empty soul looking back at you from the mirror. You do things you swore you would never do to just to feel regular, to feel normal because you no longer know what normal is. You completely forget who you are and suddenly it’s too late, you give up. You can’t make it alone anymore. You’ve fallen so far down everyone else steps over you preventing you from rising up.
I stayed with them for three days until I felt it was time to move on. “Just point me west”. In a way I didn’t want to leave. The people I met here are what we used to call the salt of the earth. They didn’t judge me, they weren’t fake, they were just real people trying to survive in a difficult environment, and if you don’t believe that then there’s only one way to get you to understand. You have to walk the mile.



This town has had it’s blood removed
Unforgiving city without a heart
Scoffing me disdainfully
Hurting me so painfully
This ain’t no city of Angels
This city ain’t got no heart
Or maybe it’s me

Cold town in a cold state
Cold state of mind without a heart
Laughing at me so damn sarcastic
Nothing but silicone and plastic
This ain’t no city to live in
This city ain’t no place to stay
Or maybe it’s me

It’s like I’ve had my soul ripped out
This place has made me heartless
Walking down the streets of the city
Block to block there ain’t no pity
I don’t have no place to go
Town that brings me down so low
Or maybe it‘s ….
No, it’s this city
I’m out