This city is a facade.
Cold parks pretending to be warm,
The sky pretending to be clear,
People pretending to be fine, or
Maybe they aren't pretending?
The buildings are the same.
The people have all grown accustomed to dreariness.
They drag ahead in their lives,
And only a few are
Sprinting beyond.
It feels like I'm the only one standing still.
I hate to admit it,
But I love the lonely corners of this broken place.
Quiet bookstores,
Vendors selling warmth that tastes like home,
Abandoned cats that I always yearn to
Bring home with me, but sadly,
Knowing that I cannot,
Because there is only so much room,
And I don't have much comfort left in me
To give to these beautiful creatures.
Behind the facade, I care for the cracks.
The mist, the small things, that
Nobody else knows to see.
This illusion is a blanket that I wish to rip off of this watery place.
To show others in this grey weariness that have endured without knowing,
The things that are real.
Honest things that
Cannot be lied to, and cannot lie themselves,
So that these people should see
The truths and beauties
That lie in this monotonous city.
And that maybe,
Paradise
Isn't so far away.
YOU ARE READING
A Touch of Wonder
PuisiA book of poetry filled with thoughts, experiences, and emotions. "As I walk down the slippery street, My face streaming with tears, The sadness can barely be sustained. But you suddenly kiss away my fears, My dear umbrella in the rain."
