New York,

You're a strange place.

Filled with some that fit in and some that don't

With some that fit in because they don't

Some who make it, and some that won't

And yet it seems as though every artist starves to be the hunger artist,

and finally get a moment in the light.

A short while in focus before they too are blurred like those who're out of sight.

It smells like cigarettes and broken dreams

Like bad coffee and regrettable schemes

But no matter how many fall down, there is another row eager to try their hand

To do what others can't or won't

That after all is what draws me back to you.