Sometimes the city is bad.
I don’t like the smell of industry.
In the city, I walk thinking about rural born soliloquies.
It’s all concrete and tarmac, steel and bright lights,
But I’d rather chirping crickets and timid fireflies.
It’s sirens and honking, petrol fumes and the cold.
Those beaten down, conditioned, given up on dreams old.
The parks smell like urine, cheap beer and dog shit,
The people reminded constantly of the wealth and how they don’t get none of it.
Men in suits and women with ties in their hair
Held back so they can be everyone, everywhere.
Trust is forbidden, compassion a scam,
We all walk with heads down, it’s shameful and bland.
Of these cities I see death in a hundred years’ time.
There is cold, harsh hostility with fear replacing hearts on the frontline.
We battle, we battle, trample our way to the top.
But what are we gaining that’s helping to water the crop?
Sometimes the city is good.
Here the industrial metropolis gives rise
To the thought flow and creativity of souls old and souls wise.
Lost amongst the many bodies, but here found a hub
The city is the field of niches from the penthouse to the underground club.
It’s here we all meet, come from lands far and wide
Contributing our flavours and music and pride.
Where the insomniac knows there is always someone awake
Sounds of traffic soothe the lonely, ease the sleep of heartache.
The city is distraction, it is colour and sound
There is possibility here, those lost can be found.
Hustle the crumpling pay check, bustle your way,
This is where you make your dreams happen, so they say.