I sit here on the corner.
That park bench,
Next to the tall buildings

It smells of smoke
Overworked waitresses and workers sit where I sit day in and day out
Wonder when things are going to get better
Sit down with there sorrows
Chain smokers who just want it to be over
I breathe it in because I am lost as well
I sit where the cars rush past, and don't stop for anyone
Where the sounds of people and cars clash on sidewalks and in the air
The bench where no one wants to sit, but has to in times of desperation
lost hope and sadness
Here I sit.
On the streets, and on the bench
Where a novel could have been written
Where that man passed out drunk
Where people of all races and creeds have sat and waited for an everlasting peace in their lives
Something that never came
Amongst trench coats and stained college sweatshirts are those who have sat here
The bench and the street more like it

It does not discriminate
Everyone of every class, race, gender, religion shares the bench
Not a single word can describe the hate
Sadness and lonliness
That has occurred on that bench
And yet here I sit
I breathe it in

I will never forget when you reminded me
that you were right and I was wrong
That I was young and you were old
That I was small and you were large
That I was grey and you were gold
You speak and I speak differently, therefor I am forever wrong

Theres all this repetition
Didn't sign up for what seems like this competition
Didn't walk two feet before I had to have it
Had to live it
Had to endure it
These storms that never pass
Life's like a rainstorm
Right before it's bound to end
Too many people leaving
Deceiving
Receiving everything that I can't have
Will never have
I suppose that to get these things you must be giving
Though Iv'e been giving for so long and I have gotten nothing in return
But disappointment and the chance to look at all my failures
all of my mistakes

In Chinatown it is busy
Bikes go real fast down streets that are dark, covered with crumpled up chinese newspapers and what looks like the aftermath of a thousand party poppers
Colored paper that slowly disappears into the wind as the day goes on
An old man is wearing a sign on his chest
He speaks of anger towards the Japanese
How they have not rightfully paid China back for all the damage and heartbreak they caused in wars past

In Chinatown it is different
The air is soft, but the area is buzzing with people
I sit down at one of the bakeries
Here I am at peace
Here, although there is no one to talk to in english
I feel listened to

History teaches us multiple things
It teaches us:
Think about the time lost.
Decide your point of view
Don't be Arrogant
To not feel as if everything that is our nations past is all good,
or all bad
or all boring
or all sad
History teaches us the importance
of learning from our mistakes
And knowing that sometimes it repeats itself
In a downwards spiral
Issues that then turn up in poetry,
books, newspapers,
television, radio
Even hidden in the streets, the inside of concrete tunnel walls
In the form of graffiti

excuse me I'd say
Im sorry I'd say
trespassing on streets that were 'not my own'
being treated like a second class citizen in a place that I 'thought was mine'
excuse me I'd say
Im sorry I'd say
as travelers, strange men pass me by
with brief cases
and coats
with shiny new buttons

This man
he unravels large sums of money
that mean much more to him then us
counting out the stacks as if there were nothing else in the world

excuse me I'd say
Im sorry I'd say
then again
why should I be apologizing?
no one ever answers

We all wish for the same basic things
There are those who try to climb ahead,
and then there are those who wait and accept what they are going to get through being dismissive

Glowing lights
Millions of lightbulbs being ****** to the ground
The timeless space that is life awakens
Black consumes the walls,
but sparks of this light appear in the distance
Lost hope seems but a moment away
The night is cold,
wind hits, but windows block it out
even with the constant battering of their screens

Satchel in hand,
I embrace the rain, and the wind
The light,
and the black walls
I climb ahead
one foot in front of the other I walk
then I begin to run fast
Running past lights that blur out of vision

I am running into streets that go on and on
they are black, but there is no worry
only fools worry about running into something that isn't there

It starts out with just one line
And I swear to you it does
Rough
It's rough to write, like hearing chalk touch real hard against the board and go
Up
And
Down
It wakes you up, reminds you of your current situation.
It isn't a vacation
We live in a nation
of quick runners,
Fast walkers
People who can even talk faster then they can move
People born to speed up, not down
And I swear to you it starts with one line
With one string of words, it starts
Not with fast runners or
Quick walkers
Or people who can talk real fast
It is that one string of words that is written down
That my friends is something no one can touch
It is said that actions speak louder than words
But words, lines written down, are powerful
They are more powerful than the scratching of chalk against the board
the fast people
The fast walkers
And the people who can talk faster then they can move
That one line can stop it all
Because written words are powerful

It is very cold out
On days like this, pacing keeps your mind off things
Pacing makes one warm
Allows one to think without interruption
Making circles that never end against pavement that stretches out as far as you can see
with ones head always down, blocking off wind, you notice more about the pavement
Whether filled with newspapers that have never been read, or trash strewn alongside it.
It is odd, when it rains
the pavement is much more pleasant to walk on
and you are much more pleasant to see

Taking it all away
Big man with metaphysical claws extended
The invisible hand no longer represents the driving force of the economy
But instead it exists alongside people's shadows
Man in the street says hello, but the darkness beside him speaks differently
Controlling his every move
He  ain't oblivious to it
He knows its there
Can't stop it
Gives up
Because its social order
That controls the man on the street