Chicago.

Two million people with stories untold.

Their bitter lives scarred by the affects of

all the others settled around them.

There really is a history hidden here.

There are tears dried up 

in the cracks of sidewalks, 

and lipstick-written notes 

written in the bathroom stalls,

scattered pieces of paper and bullets, 

and a man with a guitar playing for petty change.

So many people live their lives

wandering through the city known

for famous firsts and tragic affairs.

Yet most of these people ignore 

the strange others living around them,

and they seem to miss the present.

They don't listen.

Author's Note

I didn't exactly know how to end this poem very well. Hopefully it'll do for now. I lacked inspiration and this isn't really the poem I had in mind when I first started writing. But it'll do. Enjoy.

Reviews

[ZeeArsonist]

Midwest, represent! I know that *thing* about Chicago, too. I can feel it in my bones when I walk around there. It gets on your skin. It has a taste. I really enjoyed the imagery here. I put me right back at the Belmont stop. you really hit it on the nail, this social interaction/dysfunction. Working Class locals leave just enough time in their morning commute to ignore anything that does not involve coffee, cigarettes or a taxi driver. The tourists panicwhisper and hold their breath as they awkwardly pass the ones waiting for change to drop. They feel guilty, but the feeling soon passes. life goes on.

[Joshua David Dary]

This is...wow. Honestly, one of the best poems I've read in a long time! Keep doing what you're doing, and I'll keep reading. (:

[Naomi WIlliams]

Thank you so much! (:

[Simon Welsh]

You really paint a landscape :) well done!

[Naomi WIlliams]

Thanks (: