Pastel houses,
carousel mouses.
Culture clashes in tourist-reliant suburban wastelands.

Toxic aftermath pouring out of performers' hands as everyone claps.

This is what I grew up in.

These streets are full of magic.
The kind that seeps from grand dreams seen to fruition.
The kind that charges tuition on the merits of your madness.
The kind where failed ambition sleeps in back alleys,
feeding off forgotten sadness.