Portraits of you now, portraits of you now, portraits of you, snap shots of life.

I roll up the window, so the dope smoke doesn't linger on the baby's chest, I fix her hair, I stroke her face, I kiss her forehead and, I adjust her vest, don't worry, she's comfortable and clean.

Staring across the rooftops now, and down onto the empty lamp lit streets below, the night has yet to yield the stories from the pavements, of the family portraits that we all know.

The young lovers they are making promises, fumbled passion aligned to music beats, the seeds of future generations are sown here, on these familiar sounding streets. 

The young son waits for his father, watching, but he's never coming home, while he the estranged father sits clutching photos, is now living, forsaken, desperate, and alone.

And her, her father drank too much, he was gambler and a drunk, dehumanising the household with his alcoholic rage, the myth of happy families alone, he did debunk.

And she, her mental health did suffer, from his violent hand, but as the family matured and grew, they began to understand, they are a bit part of this environment's life cycle.

There are a million stories mingled, amidst the early morning traffic chorus, the narrative here is nothing new, familiar stories have been told by those who come before us. 

The self-harmers outer body experience, and the days they stared in disbelief, at that sadness of the blood red letting, weeping skin, from which their feelings, they did seep.

But brave you are then, as you are now, brave beyond belief, coping strategies are now amened, the scars a memory of how you dealt with grief, you are worth a million stars.

There's the tale of Bully is as bully does, he bullied life and bullied love, he found bullying it pays, until someone had enough of bully, and put paid to his bullying ways, now his family grieves.

For so many, life has now become a shared and lived experience, a tale of intervention, communities are needing to heal their scars through cure, rather than their prevention.

And what of you, working hard I see, the pays too sparse to mention, working until you are deemed old enough, to collect your lifetime pension, in the twilight of your years.

Portraits of you now, portraits of you now, portraits of you, snap shots of life.

Hear the bell of Pavlo's dog, and behold our social conditioning, the subtle political schooling of tradition, to which we are still listening, we are hardwired to this convention.

And some do well, better done, fared better in life than others, social conditioning pays I guess, but not as well, as it pays disproportionate wealth to some others.

But look at them, they choose to think, and challenge and protest this mindless automation, they bite the hand that attempts to feed of us, this continuous misleading, misinformation.

The rippled effect, streamed from the buttered-up headline press, a continuous reaffirmation, as they know what's best, for they are the self-proclaimed moral barometer of a nation. 

However, there's disconnect, a felt unrest, and it's not just the cost of living, watch traditions defied, individuals mass and dance with pride, to escape this pre-set cultural prism.

Take a snapshot of life, a scan, hear ultrasound, the heartbeat of life, the pitter and patter of tiny feet upon the ground, family genes nurtured and weaned, echoing in a whole new generation.

Although along the way, some fell, fall, they never aged, a life lesson and warning, for no matter how brave the faces we wear, pitfalls of emotions will, do, and can come calling.

But remember, celebrate, the flicker of light and warmness, the smile and laughter that brightened the days, and can still be carried to and from, and always besides, and before us.

And here comes you, ambitious youth, with a sense of self, and a steely determination, streetwise, unwise, life wise, on a journey to an unknown destination, invincible not yet overcome.

See the real-life art carvings living through tough time starts, see their talent, see that all have ability, listen to the sound of our shared linguistics, and know, not be divided by another’s view of their own nobility.

Hear our guitars strum, our voices sing, people dancing, and laughing loudly, families, friends, fashion trends, portraits proudly, on display, neighbours shouting, dogs barking, sunsets setting, poets' lamenting, snap shots of life, today.

And me, I roll up the window, so the dope smoke doesn't linger on the baby's chest, I fix her hair, I stroke her face, I kiss her forehead and, I adjust her vest, don't worry, she's comfortable and clean.