Poem about Things

Life is better than you think it is, and yours is worse than it seems
The poor are the happy when they're not freezing and starving
and the rich and the famous are the tortured and sleepless
when they wake up to what they've done and who they are

I don't think the smell of flowers can save me when it's snowing in my soul
and out on the city streets
Someone out there is wandering through the snow
Wishing there was a home waiting somewhere
I'd give my home to all of them if I knew who I was

[their bodies are broken and so is my mind
broken and breaking, shattering and flying apart
they need a roof over their heads and i need a hand over my heart]

If you think your scars are bad
We can debate and compare
You'll look at my mind and I'll look at your back
We'll make sure that Christmas isn't a deathday
For the homeless, sick and poor
We'll stave off the pain for a few more hours until the wetness from our tears becomes dry