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Aug 2
If you were to go looking for Icarus,
You'd have to travel all the way to the end of the world,
New York City!
The city where dreams come true,
You'd have to travel to a run down lower Eastside apartment,
You'd find a failed theatre student,
Lining up empty wine bottles along his window ledge,
Like he was arranging a stained glass mosaic,
This city is just a shallow concrete pipe dream,
Nothing but burnt-out hopes and broken promises,
A city where Icarus would fit right in.
He listens to Debussy and waltzes around his kitchen.
He drinks dollar-store liquor like it was holy water,
He smokes Marlboro lites as if they'll really save him.
He sites on his balcony and paints the city skyline,
Even though nobody will ever see his paintings,
They are his salvation,
His confessional.
He flinches whenever he sits down,
His wounds are still sore,
A reminder of his recklessness,
This is where you'll find Icarus,
In a run-down lower Eastside apartment,
In the city where dreams come true.
B The Poet
Written by
B The Poet  15/Non-binary/my brain, where else?
(15/Non-binary/my brain, where else?)   
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