In the carnival of the Barrio
The moment's invent themselves,
Another world apart from
The lunatic normalcy,
Confederation of fire,
The nomadic nocturne spiraling
Into the darkness,
A magnetosphere of addiction,
A high voltage need
That crawls on the very skin.
People in a drama:
A woman limps bursting
Into the eyes of the unseeing,
A hand for a hand,
The emotions stir inside,
Coins fall into her,
Clusters of emotions,
Spinning webs that scatter
The hearts,
She skips off into the cityscape.
I see a people in a tunnel vision,
Perhaps I am part of them,
I speak as I watch the addicted;
A forest of needles
In the arms that reach,
A man whose youth is alive
In the body that's seems so old,
The endless hand that reaches,
Falling without falling,
The night insisting on his existence,
Hands full, he runs to deal with
Himself.
The desolation of the addicted,
A couple holding hands
Walking the street,
He lets her go into the sky
And she is picked up
By a raining comet,
He waits for her return,
Money in hand,
To the nocturnal lament
They become as they pass through
The eye of a needle.
The streets were once rivers,
The houses were once gold,
But the night takes the shimmering
And turns it away from
The additicted nocturnal.
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 3:06 PM UTC
In the carnival of the Barrio
The moment's invent themselves,
Another world apart from
The lunatic normalcy,
Confederation of fire,
The nomadic nocturne spiraling
Into the darkness,
A magnetosphere of addiction,
A high voltage need
That crawls on the very skin.
People in a drama:
A woman limps bursting
Into the eyes of the unseeing,
A hand for a hand,
The emotions stir inside,
Coins fall into her,
Clusters of emotions,
Spinning webs that scatter
The hearts,
She skips off into the cityscape.
I see a people in a tunnel vision,
Perhaps I am part of them,
I speak as I watch the addicted;
A forest of needles
In the arms that reach,
A man whose youth is alive
In the body that's seems so old,
The endless hand that reaches,
Falling without falling,
The night insisting on his existence,
Hands full, he runs to deal with
Himself.
The desolation of the addicted,
A couple holding hands
Walking the street,
He lets her go into the sky
And she is picked up
By a raining comet,
He waits for her return,
Money in hand,
To the nocturnal lament
They become as they pass through
The eye of a needle.
The streets were once rivers,
The houses were once gold,
But the night takes the shimmering
And turns it away from
The additicted nocturnal.
The streets are filled with hustlers, all types of people hustling for drugs or survival. I see it everyday, I watch them sometimes and learn how they live. This poem is just one example of what I have witnesed.
