Whenever I go to Chicago,
I feel so small and tiny,
the large towers lean and shadow over me,
as if they're to mock my background
filled with cowboy boots,
dust filled curls,
and country music.
People bustle between one another,
shoulder to shoulder,
a lady in skinny jeans that she bought with so many rips,
her red heels can't even make a sound
over the constant honking of every single car,
her short caramel hair fluttering in the unrestful wind,
she only a single member of the city that never sleeps,
always standing as a reminder of urbanization,
but how in crowds and crowds of people,
how can I feel so lonely?
Wayland.
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Endless May
PoetryAll poems written throughout quarantine's May. Poems about lust, sunflowers, and dancing in a field of stars.