My veins are inside-out
Blood's not of importance
All this slicing doubt
With the metal in accordance

Things are out of hand
I'm all washed up in red
Too lost to understand
I might at well be...

"Miss? Can you hear me?"

He said my luck was with me
But would he mind to ascertain
He would find, the things, I see
Would make most people go insane

there's no poetry between us
in the inches of soil and grass that add milage to the distance
there is no tragic stanza
no iambs to recount and consider
no melody
my heart has a break in it
a faultline unabridged
your spaces are defective.
there's no poetry between us
i don't think there ever was

in a city that breeds hooligans
ingrates and indecencies,
where the architecture of a lost era
crumbles into brothels and madhouses,
where shootings peak
with the heat of summer,
where new windows are boarded up daily
and we chop down trees like fanatics,
in the city I call home,
in the city I love,
destroyed by its ignorance,
I am condemned to silent pleas
and empty stares.