The subway air feels like pudding. It's thick, and as clingy as water. When you take a shower at night - and you should always take a shower at night, unless you want to sleep with the city - you can feel the air instantly liquify and drain away.

The memories leave marks on your skin, if you let them. The bruises on your sides from bumping unique people;  the cut on your head from hitting a pole; the ache in your heels from walking too far. You're experiences hang on your skin, and shine through your eyes.

New York is unique because of her variety. She's strong because of her diversity. She grows because of her adaptability. New York is a jungle of human-animals trying to survive.

The smell of opportunity is stronger than the potent *** of other smells: the *****, rodent-infested tracks, frequent homeless sleeping quarters, grungy, old costumes on Times Square.

She is life; she is alive.

If you're alone or together you are always a part - a piece that makes it what it is. Without you the city survives. She has, and will. But without you, she's not what she is with you. Even if she tried.

People flow trough her streets as uniquely as blood runs through your veins. The heart orchestrates the motion, while the blood does the dance. she lives and breaths through each person's lungs. Each one arrives for a particular reason - even if for no reason at all. Our arrival helps her breath.

The anticipation before arriving in New York - not the Big Apple, no one calls it that - is enough to deprive a voyager of sleep on incoming flights. Even at 11:45 p.m. The jungle of buildings, built in perfect chaos testifies someone saw the bigger picture. A person may only see a foot, or a year in front of their face. New York saw far ahead, and high above.

Everyone is welcome. Some never leave. Permanently or temporarily, New York will take you in as long as you stay. She may hold on a little too long.

Everyone's out to outdo everyone else
It's not even about meaning anymore
It's how much press coverage it gets
Whoever makes them "just" statistics
And there's no fantasy draft yet

Somewhere alone in his dark place
Ruminating his environment
Some bedwetting, fire starting, animal abuser
Infantilized by the hatred of maternal instincts
Projected on him
De-evolved

He likes the way she hurts him
She abuses open hand words
or clenched up fists of embarrassment
It just fuels his homicidal tendencies
His brains on the hate frequency
And he's ready to let the fantasy slip

Home is where the heartless host
absence of emotional ghosts
the boy
the man
the monster

He lost it

Family annihilator,
He took his mother out last
So she'd suffer through
the destruction of the *******
Her wasted wish
of abortion'd children.

This was before the news vans
This was before the first respondents
This was before the society outlash

Back to him alone in a dark place
In the depths of his disturbing mind
He sets higher stakes.

What if God decided like any other manufacturer 
to put a stamp on each of us and let us know our fate

Like the date the milk turns bad is no mystery
So will be the date a person will be history. 

Will you date a person with short shelf life
or even  make that person your wife?

And will you make most of a bond that you cherish
if you know for sure when its going to perish?

WIll you love one kid more than the other
if you know who is going farther?

And above all how will you live your life, if you already have a hint
   whether your time on earth is a marathon or a short sprint?

I can not keep on going,
Knowing that my people are at risk.
And when I say my people,
I mean all people.

These people are not mine, nor yours, or theirs.
These people are people, and only people.
Quivering at the sight of you.
They stand together, my people.

And when I say my people,
I mean everyone.
America, Africa, Australia.
These people live only for people.

And these people are lost in a world so cruel,
That they are only alive for those who love them.
These people want nothing but to die.
But they hang on for those who love them.

These people are the people late at night,
You hear them, don’t pretend you don’t.
These moans, those yells, these screams
They are theirs and only theirs.

These people are no less than you,
And no greater than you could be.
These people are only people,
Struggling to survive, these people are.

And when I look at you,
I only see one thing.
You.
You are apart of my people.

TWO loves had I. Now both are dead,
And both are marked by tombstones white.
The one stands in the churchyard near,
The other hid from mortal sight.

The name on one all men may read,        
And learn who lies beneath the stone;
The other name is written where
No eyes can read it but my own.

On one I plant a living flower,
And cherish it with loving hands;      
I shun the single withered leaf
That tells me where the other stands.

To that white tombstone on the hill
In summer days I often go;
From this white stone that nearer lies
I turn me with unuttered woe.

O God, I pray, if love must die,
And make no more of life a part,
Let witness be where all can see,
And not within a living heart.

I

slam poetry as in the way you constantly put me down using words far prettier than flowers

II

slam poetry as in the way you shatter my mind with each and every blow i take and glue it back together with poison-laced sentences

III

slam poetry as in the way i slam the door to your apartment after you say "i love you" like you really mean it

IV

slam poetry as in my mouth crushing your mouth, your lips bruising mine

V

slam poetry as in our love for each other has always been there and the chaos when we're together is too much

VI

slam poetry as in the way your car forced itself around that tree trunk after one too many drinks and one too many kisses

VII

slam poetry as in falling without fear onto a bed made for us at the bottom of the ocean