I've been told a million times not to trust you. I've been told a million times to look down on you, past you or through you. I've been told to believe that you're on the street nearly freezing or melting just to garner my pity and my money so you can buy drugs. Alcohol. Porn. Whatever the sin of the day is. I've been told not to trust you because there is no way every person who claims to be homeless actually is homeless, and it's hard to tell which people are the ones who are trying to change their life for the better.

To you, am I writing this letter, words on a page that you will never probably see: to you, the people who actually want change in their life, and are willing to do something about it.

Every time I see you walking the same strip of concrete between bustling lines of cars, I feel embarrassed. Not because of you, but because of me: even when I have money and I give it to you, even when I buy you a hot meal by the bus stop, I still feel bad inside. I feel that way because I firmly believe I should be doing so much more for you. I feel even worse whenever I have something, anything small and I don't spare it... because that fear of being wrong about you stops me from reaching out.

Every time I pass you sitting on the trash lined street, driving my '15 model car, blasting music and smiling because of a good test grade, you are there, waiting for someone to help you. And I don't know what you think about, but I wonder if you look at those of us in cars, people having a good day, or even a bad one, and hate us for what we have. I wonder if you hate us: even though we might have families that are falling apart, friends in the hospital, careers that are ending... because at least we have a home to go to at the end of each day. A refrigerator of food to open at the end of each night of sleep on a bed that is our own.

I hope you know I want to do more. I hope you know that I want the courage to help you up if in the simplest way, even when my friends tell me not to and turn away. And most of all I hope that other people do the same. Because when we all help you up, the world isn't quite so heavy on any one of us. It isn't quite so bleak and selfish as I am lead to believe from my own experiences.

I hope you know that when I see you I also get angry. I am sad, but I also feel angry. I am angry that there are hundreds of people who pass by, and most don't stop to say hello, or hear your story; they don't give you a chance. I am angry I can't do more for you.

In my dream world, I'd be able to give you a house full of warmth and food. I'd be able to take most of the material weight of the world off of your shoulders.
But I know that can't be... at least not yet. And I can't let my emotions get the better of me: that would cloud my judgement, and I wouldn't be able to see who is lying, and who is telling the truth.

I can't help everyone. But I want to help you.