Homeless in New York is a stark, unflinching exploration of life on the streets, where survival means more than just finding shelter—it means holding onto your dignity, your sense of self, and, at times, your very humanity. This powerful collection of poems takes you deep into the heart of a world many choose to ignore, revealing the raw and often painful experiences of those living on the fringes of society. From the bustling streets of Manhattan to the forgotten corners of Brooklyn, from the loneliness of sleeping under bridges to the fleeting connections made in the shadows of Times Square, this book paints a vivid portrait of life in the most unforgiving corners of New York City.
With brutal honesty, Homeless in New York doesn’t sugarcoat the hardships of homelessness but dives straight into the gritty truths: the cold concrete pillow, the stench of the subway grate, the endless rain that never stops, and the daily fight for survival. Yet, it also uncovers moments of quiet beauty, a brief but heartfelt connection with a stranger, or a dream that flickers in the mind of someone whose life seems to have been abandoned by the world. These poems explore the psychological toll of invisibility, the existential despair that comes with being forgotten, and the dream of home that never fully fades—no matter how far out of reach it seems.
Each poem in this collection resonates with the pulse of the city, juxtaposing the dizzying lights of Times Square and the glass towers of Wall Street with the darkness of the forgotten streets, alleys, and shelters. It’s a meditation on the harsh contrast between the rich and the poor, the visible and the invisible, the “lucky” and the “unlucky.” In Homeless in New York, you will find voices that refuse to be silenced, stories that demand to be heard, and lives that, despite being cast aside, continue to burn with defiance and raw emotion.
If you’ve ever walked past a person sitting on a street corner, avoiding their gaze, or glanced away from the homeless shelter you drove by, this book will make you stop and think. It challenges you to look deeper, to question the system, and to ask yourself why we allow anyone to slip through the cracks. But it also offers an intimate glimpse into the heart of those who endure—those who still dream, still feel, still fight, even in the face of overwhelming odds.
Homeless in New York is not just a collection of poems—it’s a window into a world that exists right under our noses, yet remains largely invisible to most. It’s a book that will stay with you long after you turn the last page, making you rethink the idea of “home,” of survival, and of the humanity we all share, whether we acknowledge it or not.
Step into the shadows of the city that never sleeps, where the dreams are fragile and the fight for dignity is relentless. This is not just the story of homelessness—it’s the story of humanity at its most raw and unfiltered. Homeless in New York is a call to see, to hear, and to understand.
Sample
The Streets of Manhattan
They said the city would chew me up,
but they forgot to mention how it gnaws—
slow, steady, like a rat
dragging a piece of string through a hole in the wall,
hoping it’ll lead to something better,
but the hole’s already filled with shit.
I see them all,
the ones who hustle their way down Broadway,
tapping their shiny shoes to some dream that’s already dying.
They look at the buildings
like they’ve got secrets,
but the buildings are empty inside—
full of glass and steel and nothing.
They’re all just ghosts.
I’ve seen it—
people with their backs straight,
their collars stiff,
and the misery leaking out from under their skin,
like sweat on a summer sidewalk.
None of them know it yet,
but they’re already dead.
I sleep in the park because the bench has
less spine than most of these people,
and at least it doesn’t talk about how
my dreams are dirty.
I hear them complain,
but they don’t know the half of it—
they’ve never known what it’s like
to have nothing but your bones
and the sour taste of yesterday’s whiskey
rolling around in your gut.
The subway comes,
it goes,
it’s a tunnel of voices I can’t hear.
The squeal of the train is a scream,
but nobody cares.
Not the banker with his head in his phone,
not the woman with the red lipstick
who pretends she’s going somewhere.
I saw a rat today,
he had more guts than most of these suits.
He stole someone’s half-eaten sandwich
and ate it right there,
his little paws holding onto it like
he had every right to.
And maybe he did.
I’m not asking for charity.
I don’t need your pity.
But I could use a cigarette,
a dry pair of socks,
a clean corner to sit in for one goddamn minute
without someone telling me
that my broken shoes make me less human.
But that’s the game, isn’t it?
You don’t get to play
unless you can pay.
And they don’t want you here
unless you’ve got something
to sell or something to prove.
But I’m still here.
Not because I want to be,
but because there’s nowhere else
for the ghosts to go.
I saw a man in a suit
step over a woman last night.
He didn’t even look down.
Just kept walking,
his briefcase bouncing against his hip
like he had somewhere important to be.
I thought—
maybe he’s running away from the truth too.
Maybe he thinks if he walks fast enough,
he can outrun the fact that he’s no different than me—
just another rat in this maze,
pretending the walls don’t close in.
Tomorrow I’ll wake up,
stiff,
like the city that won’t stop moving.
I’ll drag my bones out of this cardboard cocoon
and watch the sky change color
as the sun burns through the lies.
And I’ll wonder
if the city will finally swallow me whole
or if it’s going to keep me hanging around
like some damn afterthought,
the way it does with everyone.
Either way,
I’ll keep moving
because the city’s always got somewhere for me to go—
it just doesn’t care
whether I get there.
But that’s the beauty of it,
isn’t it?
We’re all just shadows here—
moving,
striving,
but never quite real enough
to matter.
You ever notice how they act like they’ve got it all figured out? They walk around like kings and queens in their fancy suits, all stiff and shiny, thinking they’re better than the rest of us. But here’s the thing—none of them know they’re already dead inside. You can see it in their eyes, in the way they look at the buildings, like they’re looking for something. But those buildings are empty. Full of glass and steel and nothing. You think I’m the only one stuck in this city of ghosts? Hell no. They’re all just stumbling around, pretending their shiny shoes can outrun the truth. But we’re all just rats in this maze, trying to get out, pretending we’re not trapped in the same filthy hole.
I sleep on a bench in the park, and at least it doesn’t lie to me. It doesn’t care about my dirty dreams or the whiskey on my breath. It doesn’t tell me I’m less of a person because I’ve got no money, no job, no future. The bench is honest. The city isn’t. The city doesn’t care about anyone unless they’re useful. And you know what? I’m not useful. I’m just here, waiting for something to change. But I’ve seen it. It won’t change. The city’s like a machine—it’ll keep grinding, eating up everyone and spitting them out, whether you’ve got a fancy briefcase or nothing at all.
And that banker, the one who stepped over the woman? He doesn’t even see her. Doesn’t see me. Doesn’t see anyone who isn’t contributing to his precious little game. But that’s what they all do, isn’t it? They run, they run, pretending they’re better than everyone else. Maybe they think if they walk fast enough, they can outrun the truth. But the truth is, they’re no different than me. We’re all just trying to survive this goddamn city, and we’re all going to end up in the same hole. You can’t outrun that.
But the city? It doesn’t care if I make it or not. It’ll keep moving, swallowing people whole, and I’ll keep dragging my bones through it, because there’s nowhere else for me to go. It’s always got somewhere for me to be—but it doesn’t give a damn whether I get there. That’s the beauty of it, you know? The city doesn’t care. We’re all just shadows, moving, striving, but never real enough to matter.