It is ironic that in the heart of a city is where it bleeds the most.
Buildings scrape the sky and people scrape bottom.
When you work downtown, the hopelessness is on daily display.
It sleeps on benches, stands on the corner and greets passers-by with palm extended, asking for a handout.
Every face has a story, rooted in despair and linked by familiarity.
The spiral starts with a poor choice, usually involving a bottle or needle. Years mount and the misery mushrooms, splintering not just one life but many.
I wish I could remove the hurt.