Sixteen years have pasted and I’ve seen the world for what it is,

From the boroughs of Western Pennsylvania, to the heart of New York,

To the white sand of Daytona and the diversity of Cincinnati.

On every street corner lie a name, an age, a whole story,

From the memories, whether it be a person, the location, or an abstract noun,

To be walked upon, cried upon, or broken down emotionally to the gristle of thy bones.

-And all you can do is sit back and observe the world rotate around you,

Seeing people exactly for what they are,

Watching time pass slowly, but vastly.

On every bridge recites a name, an age, a whole story,

From the contemplations, whether to walk away, stay awhile, or follow your chagrin,

To be laughed upon, hanged upon, or revisiting the pink bow that reminisces the viaduct.

-And all you can do is ride your bike and stare, observing the world rotate around you,

Seeing people exactly for what they are,

Watching memories flash, faintly, but immensely.

-And all you can do is sit back and observe the world rotate around you.

Maybe that’s the thing about helping the helpless,

What really helps, is not helping at all.