When You're Born In The Gutter, You End Up In The Port

Clawing in the dark for a switch.
Indian summer upon us.
Tried to see but thick was the haze.
How can I ever get one leg up.
When I was born with my two feet in the grave.
When I was young. The preacher told me.
I’d be found out by my sins.
Bloody my fists.
Against the same wall.
Hoping for a different dent.
Over and over again.
Keep searching for daylight.