So what if I'm a subscriber of the second-hand newspaper?
An enthusiast of arts of the underground?
How in the slightest is it wrong to lend my ear to the notes of a musician of the tunnels?
Why do you see me - no us - as uncivilized?
But in a sense, we are uncivilized. We are far from people like you.
You fear the beauty that flourishes below your feet.
You fear the color that taints your white walls,
the sound that fills your familiar silence.
The darkness you loathe is where the beauty we love begins.
Our beauty has no face, but rather sounds, colors, emotions
Just a noise outlined in dirt to you, but a harmony outlined in the emotions of a people to us.
We don't need your so called "perfection,"
We have our own. Unaltered. Untainted.
You oppress the artists, the dreamers, the supporters of the true nature of beauty.
Ask yourself, am I the one uncivilized? Or are you?

Card tricks.
Serenades.
Nothing.

Jokes.
Smiles.
Nothing.

Cuddles.
Hu­gs.
Nothing.

Deep stares.
Lips close.
Nothing.

Confession.
Awkward smile.
"Friends. Just friends."

I asked for a city, you gave me its parts.
I wanted a machine, an unrelenting automaton.
You gave me its people.
You gave me their emotions, their creations, their charity, their sin.
I never asked for all this.
I never asked for the thought-provoking ramblings of a beggar.
I never asked for the rhapsody of a lone saxophone player.
I never asked for the smell of rain on asphalt.
All this,
the thoughts of a young philosopher on a train,
the gaze of a hopeless romantic at a café,
the glimmer in a woman's eyes as a car passes by in the rain,
I asked for an emotionless machine, an unwavering citadel of apathy.
I never asked for this.
I asked for a city, you gave me its parts, *Thank You.