Laughters and rain and looking into distance.
My city is beautiful with history on walls.
Caramel coloured french built coffee stainted walls in the corners with centuries of existence.
Oh how i love my city.
When I'm alone in it.
Can the painters stay as well? Or that old man who wanted to sell me books for free?
Oh how i love my city, but it's not where i belong.
If i dream in the buses pardon me I didn't find rivers, old man come and tell me, there's nothing wrong with seeing it a blurry haze.
Sunglasses and a black coat, almost invisible, oh pure old man, did you know I'm already your age?
I'm just a tiny bit younger, because I can't talk all the time.
Trust me i want to but i find it better to smile and let it go.
I just didn't find rivers, and I've grown so much into nature, that i have nothing else to talk about.
Leave me on the buses - i usually prefer trains, but i hardly go anywhere- and don't tell me my eyes are watering.
I like looking up to the sky, because I thought nothing else mattered anymore other than the hues of blue dipped into lilacs and pastel pink, I thought nothing else mattered i might need some help.
I might need the pure old man to talk more, because he's a bit older.
Because oh how i loved my city.
But now nothing else matters anymore.
YOU ARE READING
CHAOTIC.
Poetry2# SLAM January 9th 2019 And you know you're creating art When your heart is slowly falling apart.
