This city never quite

Felt like mine

 

Cause some kids 

Inhaled and exhaled

The politics and 

The fire like oxygen

As necessary and natural to them

As breathing 

 

But I always felt 

Somehow like I was

Choking gasping 

For breath in the smoke 

 

Almost like the 

Very air was hostile

 

And some kids talk about

Feeling the city’s heartbeat

Like a bass thrumming

Through cement streets

And cracked sidewalk

 

But to me, this city

Has the blood of cold greed

Building itself a marble

Appearance

(a few small shops to appeal

To the common man

Like prospective voters)

Polished words and

Tombs of nothingness

 

And sure

There are a few places

Where this city feels alive

In the farmers’ markets

In the cramped coffee shops

And old bookstores

 

But it still doesn’t

Feel like mine

 

And this city may be

Speaking may be

Singing for all I know

Maybe it’s muted or

I just don’t speak 

The language somehow 

(and I was born here)

 

This city is a 

Melting pot of cultures

Blended together

A beautiful mosaic

 

And all that’s fine and good

But I don’t particularly 

Want to grind off

Some of my unique edges

 

And I certainly have

No intention of melting 

I won’t blend in that easily

 

So this city never 

Felt like mine

 

And I guess that’s okay