Chances are
As you’ve made it this far
The cigarettes and needles
Won’t stick around as tar
Chances are
Your scars from the streets
Will be a mere memory
A warrior’s scar
You may see a loser
A crippled outcast all lost
But I see a love chooser
Not willing to pay the cost
Of a mediocre life half lived
But now you feel the weight
Of a city changing by fate
Will they accept a battered heart
Poverty and schemers tore apart
If they don’t it’s because they don’t know
It’s just bruised armor hiding your great glow
They may seem well fed, content at play
Fancy clothes and a plush new loft
But we know the cost they had to pay
So unaware of the extent they are lost
From the ground up to ceiling heights
A gradual ascent makes for calmer flights
Penthouse pawns don’t have to fall
If they learn to love the small
The mundane miseries that sustain
At such thrift they love to complain
Chances are
They’ll come to see us as the same
Open their fine wine vault doors
To see you and I as the champagne
And learn to love themselves as poor
Clay The Scribe 