This city is an inevitable element of the
poetry I write.
There is hardly an escape from this
carnival ride that I am on
Oh, I’m stuck up on this trip; words delude
me till their gone
Emotions are fickle, unsure if friend or foe
Can I even trust them? I do not even know!
A conundrum to say, with meanings I yet do
not know
But, as I begin to write them down, It’s as
if I already know,
My woes are far from over; my anguish will
never go.
We, the poets of this city each breathe
fire of our own
Waiting to tell you some of our hidden
secrets, our stories yet unknown
For within the flames that we may ignite
We try to awaken within you a ray or two of
light
Like a string full of dispositions,
soothing the mind and soul
The journey from a diary, to a book and now
the mike
Can you see the similarities and how they
are unalike?
The city is a studio, no less than a dream
Where our elegies of conscience all seem the
same
Street art is conquering all of our space
Spoken word, a new form we all seem to
embrace
A poem is a poem if you believe that's what
it is,
Where emotions give birth to stanzas, and
the pen and paper kiss
So,
as I pour my heart out, please listen to my words
They all have their own meaning and most of
them have been unheard
While some depict the calmness, the
tranquility, and the stillness of the lake
There are others, which erupt like a
volcano or maybe an earthquake
The city is a just a part of me, I breathe in
coloured words
I wait for soft reminders I wait for some
foreword.
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