In the heart of the City,
I built a home among strangers
A familiarity that fools,
An incomplete existence.
What am I to you?
Dust on your shoulder?
A pebble in your shoe?
An old box of cigarettes?
Brush me off, shake me out or throw me away,
And then thrive on the pieces of me you break.
Why don’t put that in your travel guide?
You never knew me before,
Only clothed me in a whole new character.
I am yours and you are mine.
‘Are you a hypocrite?’, my home asks
I don’t have the heart to say,
I was never whole before,
I don’t have the heart to say,
I don’t have a home anymore

Wait City, my poem is almost done!
Won’t you hear it just this once?
Someone once told me the City never stops, but really?
I ran twenty-one blocks for you!
There were broken pavements since the nineteenth,
I fell on the twentieth.
My napkin poetry went flying
But I managed to save what I could.
I broke a few bones but I’m sure I can tend to them later.
My dream is struggling City,                                                                                                                      And you build shiny apartments                                                                                                              On graveyards of dreams, buried fifty feet under
Now that I’m finally here,
Don’t you dare walk away!
You let everyone in,
I ran up to your door and you closed up shop.
I think I saw a faint smile on the other side of the glass,
I think it was yours.
I knew it!
I will try another day, again
I know you’ll take my hand then.
You’re a beauty under nightfall,
And until you accept me,                                                                                                                     Maybe I’ll stay and admire you for a while


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