San Francisco
Learn more about other poetry terms
Anonymous protesters wearing their masks on their arms aren't so anonymous as they ask if you care about animals in cagesPeople flood the streetSome sleeping on it's corners, hidden by closed shop overhangs
Creator is to artist
as scientist is to technician.
I ain't no fucking electrician.
I am electricity.
I have velocity.
Enough for an attrocity.
No animosity.
But I got to be
You take my breath away, my dear
No one else has managed such a feat
I am not easily impressed, yet my jaw is in your ocean
The glittering lights in Vegas can never compare to home.
Now creeping into my mid-twenties,
the love I have for the Bay will never grow old.
I never usually take the time to swim in the midnight skies of the city
Tall, stone and gray,
We walk into the dull box-shaped building.
Inside looks the same.
Where is the color? Where is the art?
A sign reads “Monet”.
It smells like coffee grounds,
to keep us awake,
and I'll spend half an hour’s wage,
to drink it and wait.
But my apartment is too cold,
and my mattress has bugs,
and I'm stressed about money
Imagine that the Golden Gate Bridge has skin and bones,
walks among us as the one true San Franciscan
He knows all the secrets of the city
I am a sparkling pavement square
under the street lights
I am a street musician packing up
dancing down to the sounds of the subway
I am an echo of 2am sirens
on Market St.
Passer by
Stops to view a cloudy sky.
My eyes, keen to believe with a spirit to survive.
Third eye is clouded with the fog, from the sadness I feel
when I see a man without a home struggling.
I tried killing myself, but all I got was black magic. I can't keep running back and forth between grief and pure delight, And when the world is at capacity, And they're taxing weed,
I walk past wonderful, wounded people,
with nothing of worth but the words of my mouth.
Isn't there more than empty words?
Isn't there more to life than this?
