Maybe you will see through history.
You will find that this is how things used to be.
Maybe it's really supposed to be me, honestly.
Things only got in order, cleaned up the corners.
Maybe this is for the best, and it shall be, no wonder.
The streets that you thought you knew is not all that is.
Maybe it's not me and you, but could I still give you a kiss?
The city doesn't intend to take more, but to give, please believe.
Our city sheds tears daily for weeks.

Maybe you will get enough of reality.
You will see that there is paradise in the urbanity.
Maybe we were meant to be apart so we could listen to our hearts.
Things would only get messier, but I will be crazier.
Maybe I got the right tools to help you feel better.
The city is not after you, it won't drown or drain you out.
Maybe my letters are futile, you are who the scripture is about.
The city is for ours to reign in, or you could come when it's raining.
Our city bleeds weekly for months.

Maybe you will read through my poetry.
You will get in between my metaphors and subtleties.
Maybe you're supposed to show me how to write.
Things would be better if certain things didn't happen.
Maybe it's all part of a bigger plan, who's holding the pen?
The city that my children will be running in is one we can't hate.
Maybe there's reason and logic for everything, even when it's late.
The city will be the witness, in my arms is where it's warmest.
Our city will no longer cry and bleed for years.