Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2014
I sat alone in front of a crumbling grey building until its debris whispered the okay for me to go home

when you jog under street lamps and your breath is white and misty from the chill, you realize just how many footsteps have fallen before you and you wonder just how much of this same air was here last year

how can I ever live on my own when I am so afraid of the dark?

if I had a penny for every vivacious hot dog stand I came across......... I'd have enough to buy a few hot dogs.

the air doesn't smell *****. the ground doesn't look littered and ashen. this place is alive. the streets are filled with the souls of the people. they just take the shape of battered shopping carts and greasy cardboard boxes and taxi smoke when you're not looking hard enough. they're exceptional at disguise.

I see a lot of churches but I only see sin happening at the altar.Β Β 

you cannot think for yourself when the roar of the city is your cerebral cortex

in all my musing I dreamt of cobblestones and patisseries. I thought the history was in the legend-- in the campfire stories and the romance novels. but it isn't. it's here. it's New York.

children are different here. self awareness ranks high when the thieves hide in plain sight.

cracks in the pavement make me wonder what mysteries lay in the tunnels that no one speaks about

spoke to approximately 30 koreans in china town about the price of tea in america

haute couture is for sure never going to be folklore

I felt inferior walking down fifth ave so I bought a pair of knock-off sunglasses and painted musicals with my feet while eating candied insects with strangers

undiscovered broke talent meets every corner in every city

pick a card
any card
except that one
he knew I knew he'd get my $20
I let him have it
it was counterfeit

brooklyn is a two-faced liar and I'm jim carrey with a b-bl-b-blllll-bllluuured pen,
carving my insides into the trees so the little girls remember their manners when they're older

new york is forever awake and I am eternally ready to go to sleepΒ Β 

taxi drivers are succubi
It's the little things
Written by
   r, Josh Bass and ryn
Please log in to view and add comments on poems