On my street they have mansions and section 8.
I’m living somewhere in between the two.
Im watching and I can’t tell who’s the fool.
The Battle between working for a pension or to be Bill Gates.
When will I know what it is I’ve been looking for?
I want to bring help to the helpless
But the helpless can be scary.
I want to bring hope to the hopeless.
But the hopeless aren’t looking for therapy.
Too many questions about who to be, I forget who I was before.
I’m feeling like a man that’s stuck.
Stuck way down in a rut.
Am I working for money?
Or am I working for change?
Not the change of a metallic nature but the change that sees people become more.
I’m living for the ones without something worth living for.
I’m thinking that I’ve got more to offer than just praying for.
Another day waking up in my bed.
Knowing that there’s plenty waking up on the streets.
Another day all stuck in my head
The way forwards becomes clear.
The church closes it doors to the outsiders.
The world has more answers than the pulpit.
I can’t spend time looking in the rear view mirror.
This life is my shot
To end cycles of hate
To join something great
None of this is happening on a Sunday morning.
Pass the offering plate.
Man is a suit says society deserves some mourning.
The pews causing something so sedate.
People are alive in the streets
You’ll see something real in the eyes of the broken.
Please tell me you can feel what I’m writing?
You can’t come back from being awoken.