The paper is empty
blank, white, fragile
But the city is impossible to color
Each part of this picture requires specific, individualism
the smell of nuts sold in the small vendor carts
The words 5th Ave written on a street sign
but pronounced like its on a plaque
The rush of hot air when the train rushes away
warming you on days nature places her cold, bitter burden over you
Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens
heard on the news too often
No need to film movies here,
when the movie is the one we are in, and the wounds are real
Staten Island, forgotten most times
Hazy and far, isolated from everyone
And then there's Manhattan
clean streets but flawed history in the sidewalk

There's too much going on
I still don't know what to write
In this bustling city
A pen is not enough
So I leave my paper empty and let the blankness tell the story of
New York