The teacher says write,
So I write.
But I don't really want to.
I want to play in the street
In the night
While the roar of the city
Drowns out the cries of the lost and the weary.

But what the teacher says goes,
So I write.
I scribble the words
That fall loose from the pen.
They're crooked and bent
And they don't mean a thing.
How can they?
They're just words.
Words can't change anything.
They can't change the city.
They can't change the past or the future
That none of us have.

Sometimes I dream
When the teacher isn't looking.
Sometimes I dare to hope
Just a little.
That I might see a different city.
A place where the people understand.
Where they might say "hello"
And where they don't make you write
When you'd rather be playing
In the street.

And when I get home
I go play in the street
And I don't want to go home.
Why should I?
It's not really a home.
I'll just play in these streets
And dream
And hope

She says get out of the street.
But this time I won't.
I don't want to.
I don't want to go home
To the broken, empty room
And the screams and the tears.
She's yelling, but I don't care.
As the man drives too fast
And he doesn't see.
The lost boy in the street
Who dreams
And hopes
That one day he'll leave the city
To a place where they say "hello."