Evenings

Will you look at this?
The fight is in the rain, in the far sounding train
Of thoughts. My mom says I'm silly
Stitched up random, unnecessary urges
An anomaly. Not alone in that aspect though
Did you see the tree barks filled with mushrooms
And houses filled with grief
Pretty things growing from decay, both
Pretty things I didn't know how to deal
With. Still don't know. People refuse to let me see
The avalanche of history
And the stories, the artifices, the point
Do you see the point? Do you see the pinprick of shadow which is a ghost-
Which is ghost of the summer you were not brave for the first time, I remember
I remember not thinking, and being, and making a palace of my tunnels so big I thought only earthquakes could topple, turns out-
Ha. Turns out only feelings were needed, a slap on the wrist, but like a pavlovian frisk, daily on a thing you can't control
Contained and made and parfait-
Ed. Not a sob story I hope, but a ballad of urban mishaps
There's nothing romantic about the setting of a deep orange blood sun, but there are endings
That are meant to be. Nights that people should see
Finish the story
Look out of the window and see what's wrong and not turn away, look
In a paint filled wall graffiti I got a story I had not anticipated, a hallmark brand of indecency, an honesty
An essay-
That's due. Today. Funny how things come down on the success scale. And if you make it to the other side of the cup-
You're brave. If you drown before. You're kind.
But there are stories for you to find, for the sake of all our conversations be
Would I see you on the other side?

This poem is about: 
My community

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