Living in the city is killing me
Living in the city is killing me, but it has also brought me closer to an ugly reality I have come to embrace.
My stomach is eating my back, and I enjoy the loud rumbles while I seep into the words of infinite wonder.
I wonder how many more seconds of my life the city will steal from me, waiting in traffic, breathing in the toxins and fumes of capitalism that help my body flourish.
How could I leave the city?
I’m hooked on poisonous drugs and sugars, maintaining all the antibodies being tamed here.
Savory facades are built and torn down every day in the city; this is the place where the fallen angels wine and dine.
I run into them often, letting them take minutes from me; those devils replenish efforts with a smile and a handshake, on their way they go.
Black suits, black ties, and black vegan-leather suitcases stain my existence; there is no meaning here in the city.
But it is still beloved, I must turn the other way to search for the old town road.
There is hope of meeting God, or perhaps even the Devil.
As long as I meet someone, that’s all I care about.