My city is a 6 block radius, up one street, down the next, with constant orange hands telling you,
“No, don’t cross.”
Don’t cross, don’t ever cross, don’t ever leave these confines.
Because outside, you exist.
Outside these streets, you are a real person. You do real things.
And you miss the days of riding trains aimlessly. Of finding routes with no destination.
And that was okay.
Those days were simple, those streets were real. Those orange hands told you to go ahead anyway. “Cross into the great beyond; whatever is beyond here, it has to be great.”
But there are things here holding you back,
At each corner, there is a gate, holding you back.
At each corner, there is an inkling, telling you “Tomorrow, next week, next month.”
And by next year, you are still standing on the same corner, waiting.
You are waiting to be that real person again.
You are waiting to cross, waiting for that orange hand to wave you by.
But the light never changes, and the hand stands still;
Just like you.
Still like the calm before the storm that swept you here.
And here you are again, at a crossroads uncrossable.
Trying to wade through an asphalt river to the other side, the other unknown.
You just want to feel whole again, but these city blocks are suffocating you, taking you down,
Bit by bit
You are drowning.
My city is a monarch, my city is a queen, my city is a haven.
This is not my city
For my city has skylines and airwaves and breathing room,
My city has people who live and beautiful pathways to explore and discover.
My city lives, and this city is dead.
This city is killing me
Bit by bit
I am drowning.
