City

I'm not sure where this came from. I'm sat in bed, smoking cannabis.

On a day out in my city, this is what I might see: people smiling, people crying, people living on the streets. It's a city of colour, of culture, of words; it's a city of danger, of darkness, of hurt.

There's juxtaposition wherever you look, too many people in the wrong places. Dressed as a Mayor with the mind of a crook, less and less familiar faces. There's joy to be found like a coin on the ground, people to meet and to pleasure, and most of these streets, I know my way 'round, with a wisdom that you could not measure.

I'm a lot like this city beneath my feet, with its varied, and twisted, and fractured-up streets...I belong to this city, where my heart beats - The Place where the scary and beautiful meet.

We have The Old Duke, red bricks full of Jazz, on the banks of the harbour where men breathed their last, old buildings repurposed 'to libraries and schools where once, tortured souls had screamed between walls...

Just like flakes of glass on a beach, some things erode.

But just like deep scars on your cheek, some things never truly go.

And just like letting nature have her weeds, even some ugly things deserve to grow.

Reviews

[Fabian G. Franklin]

I enjoyed reading this. I'm always interested in the places that inspire the works of other writers and why. I've seen so much in my travels I've learned to let the bad go mostly. Not very good at the whole "tortured artist" thing like Van Gogh had going on. But I firmly believe we can visit injustice to address it with courage in our work without wallowing in the mire. You do that effectively here. Keep writing. Bless.

[BlackPrince]

I guess in this poem, just as in walking in a city, your mind wanders in all sorts of direction, taking your readers with you. It is picturesque just like a city full of so many things.

WELL DONE