This city is an inevitable element of the poetry I write.
There is hardly an escape from this carnival ride that I am on
Oh, I’m stuck up on this trip; words delude me till their gone
Emotions are fickle, unsure if friend or foe
Can I even trust them? I do not even know!
A conundrum to say, with meanings I yet do not know
But, as I begin to write them down, It’s as if I already know,
My woes are far from over; my anguish will never go.
We, the poets of this city each breathe fire of our own
Waiting to tell you some of our hidden secrets, our stories yet unknown
For within the flames that we may ignite
We try to awaken within you a ray or two of light
Like a string full of dispositions, soothing the mind and soul
The journey from a diary, to a book and now the mike
Can you see the similarities and how they are unalike?
The city is a studio, no less than a dream
Where our elegies of conscience all seem the same
Street art is conquering all of our space
Spoken word, a new form we all seem to embrace
A poem is a poem if you believe that's what it is,
Where emotions give birth to stanzas, and the pen and paper kiss
So, as I pour my heart out, please listen to my words
They all have their own meaning and most of them have been unheard
While some depict the calmness, the tranquility, and the stillness of the lake
There are others, which erupt like a volcano or maybe an earthquake
The city is a just a part of me, I breathe in coloured words
I wait for soft reminders I wait for some foreword.