when I breathe in this city,
my lungs are filled with plastic.
it's called sin city for a reason,
turning human into animal.
cover the eyes of a child,
shield it from the bare skin
they think is acceptable to flaunt.
a poor man tells his family
not to worry about money,
for this is the place to throw it
to the wind.
the lights are nothing like my city.
my city is filled with hope,
the smoke is filled with love
this city is different.
filled with possession,
the smoke without feeling.
the harsh lights filling a girl's eyes
with tears too cold.
none of it is real.
the reality is no where to be seen,
my imagination will get to me soon.
and looking at those lights,
the objects that stabilize me in my city,
only leave a sour flavor in my mouth
mouth stuffed with money.
Money, Girls, and Words Left in Sin City.
c.d.
a/n: a little something I wrote while in a city I'm not on good terms with.
YOU ARE READING
1:46 a.m.
PoesieA collection of poems, most written at extremely late, or should I say extremely early, times of the day, when my mind can truly bleed its thoughts onto paper.
