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Norman Crane Apr 30
on sunday mornings
the streets sigh
with hideous anticipation
awaiting an answer to a question—
unspoken—
is the city dead
or not yet awoken?
Kyrie Hajashi Apr 19
Filth, rain, and street
The blood, smoke, and spit
Inhale the stench, inhale it deep
The ****, beggars, and *****

Drugs, hate, and graffiti
Here, clean is as scarce as mercy
Dignity is currency
Man Jan 31
the clock read 4 am
in new york city,

one hell of a city

i was at a little coffee place, still open
it was one i frequented often, when in the sin
a place of pity
when you look closely at the people or inspect the buildings a bit nearer
some street blocks you need just look down
but i'd bought a cup for a nice young fella out on his luck
he'd made the pavement his pillow
and as he talked my ear off
on physics, domestic politics, and stocks
i thought of what little difference
it made to so many
whether it was him or i
calling my stay on the straightaways
and the little that made us separate
Tizzop Jan 26
your camouflage is spotless, babe
i want to reveal your inner
it's difficult to find you, babe
you revealed my inner last night

we are apart from each other
although we're sharing the same dreams
green ideas, arrival's smile
real laughter and toxic strangers

how can i find you between 'em?
how will i know that it's you then?
in the middle of my middle
eight syllables, i count on you

you're my lady but you're hidden
among buildings, streets and people
between the glimpses of despair
somewhen, never, always somewhere

the rouge of your bloodstream enchants
my wishes, longing, desire
in the moment of the key-night
we'll stand before our door, baby

maybe i've found you already
maybe you are my wife, baby
maybe you are my wife, baby
maybe i've found you already
Sarah Flynn Nov 2020
we were fourteen kids.
there were enough of us
to fill a classroom,
but we rarely went to school.
we learned what
we needed to know
from the streets.
school was pointless.
multiplication and cursive
wouldn't keep us alive.

one of us was almost sixteen,
in the wrong place
at the wrong time.
he got mistaken for
someone else, and he was
stabbed over and over
and over and over again.
we were thirteen kids.

two of us were nineteen
and almost twenty,
walking down a block
that wasn't ours.
we heard the shots
from our street
a few blocks over.
we were eleven kids.

one of us was thirteen
and on our block
where she thought
she would be safe.
she was pulled into an alley
and hurt in the worst ways.
she found out
she was pregnant
a few weeks after.
we didn't hear the gunshot
when she took her own life,
but we all knew she was gone.
we were ten kids.

one of us saw his brother
gunned down in
broad daylight.
he couldn't stop
replaying the scene
in the back of his mind.
he grabbed a Glock 19,
and he took the lives
of four kids from
the other side of town.
he disappeared that night
into the glow of
blue and red lights.
he rotted away in a cell.
we were nine kids.

one of us was a hero.
he pulled a woman
out of a burning car
and lost his life
in the process.
the newspapers refused
to show his story
when they heard
what neighborhood
he came from.
he died a hero, but
he would never be seen
as anything but a villain.
we were eight kids.

five of us lost so much
that eventually we had
nothing left to lose.
the gang life called,
and five of us answered.
we knew that
they couldn't be saved.
these streets don't
give people back.
and they'll take you,
dead or alive.
we were three kids.

one of us was twenty
and he thought that
he would make it out
of here, onto better things.
he was making dinner
for his younger sisters,
two beautiful little girls.
a stray bullet burst
through the window
and took him down.
the last thing he saw
was those two little girls
who he loved more
than you could ever imagine.
he was their older brother
and their parent and
their best friend, all at once.
they watched him fall
and never get back up.
we were two kids.

one of us made it.
she grew up, and she
moved far away from
our old neighborhood.
but those memories and
those losses and that pain
never left her mind.
she turned to pills
and then to needles,
and one day, she
took a little too much.
I was one kid.

I am one kid, now grown,
with thirteen dead friends.
I am a survivor, but that
isn't something to celebrate.
I shouldn't be a survivor
because none of this
should've ever happened.
we should still be fourteen kids.
Mikaela L Nov 2020
Less like home,
More like streets,
Mean streets,
In utter darkness,
Shutting on me,
Blessing me with encounters with the lowlife,
With the cold winters and the "too hot to bear" summers,
Down these mean streets,
I've been looking for the perfect corner,
That side of the street where shoppers stop by,
Because it reminds them of the old times,
When the city was a city,
And the streets were more than mean.
Sarah Flynn Nov 2020
if these streetlights could speak,
they'd narrate stories that would
keep you awake at night

and if these corners could scream,
they would never stop screaming

and if these streetlights could speak,
and these corners could scream,
would you listen?

are you listening?
mikah Nov 2020
The streets scream with unbridled joy.
They are a bird in a cage that has just broken the lock.
They are a stallion in a pen who has spent their
life staring at the mountains,
whose legs have finally found the momentum to
                      Run.
They are a man in the desert,
                      Thirsty and Starving,
who has found himself a banquet in a rainstorm.
They reach their hands into the sky,
praising the sun and the moon and the stars
and God, whoever that may be.
They collapse onto their knees,'
head in their hands,
overwhelmed by a newfound
                    Hope
they haven't felt in four years.

They live again.

The streets are humans united with the knowledge that maybe,
just maybe,
they will be okay.
There is a long way to go still,
but streets are made to get from one place
to another.

We have broken out of that cage.
We are running toward the mountain.
We will soon eat our fill of the banquet laid out
for the hungry, the thirsty, the poor, the sick,
the dying, the naked.

There is a long way to go.
But for now, we sit in traffic on the street and
honk our horns and
raise our hands and
celebrate.

The streets scream with unbridled joy.
the past few days have been the most stressful of my life (I live in the US). there are so many emotions I'm feeling right now, and I felt called to write a poem about it. i hope it resonates with some of you.
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