PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

And then I stroll

Throughout the inner city of my body

Holding all that's cold.

All that's poor and weak, disgruntled

Thrown across the floor.

Every broken basket rim

And every murder scene.



Do you think that I could be at all

Any better off outside these slums?

In say, a little four square blocks just off a mile

Sunk with tennis courts and men with endless funds.

My! How even the bums are rich!

How every corner bitch reeks

With fine champagne and glitz and... oh... that sweetest scent

Of such perfumes that showcase every dollar spent.



Ah, Jesus... Which part to embrace.

The ghetto in my face

Or the cheap escape of vanity.

The boardwalk and the park place.

Which one retains my sanity for longer?

Which one makes me stronger?

Which one pleads a better case?



Ahh how I once retreated into every corner of my precious rich town.

My little bitch town.

Complete with crowns and mystic magic all around

And things that make me see my life for more than it can be

Through some distorted memory.



But still I come to every alley in my slum.

Embrace the plain and relish right its pain.

Magistics lacking

Leave me no more backing to confide in.

Just a barren, fact-of-matter site

That can at times grow trite

To such a longing brain.

But still, I must appreciate

The simple truth it spouts

From every sewer mouth.

How it brings me down

Onto your earthly ground

And paints my life for no more than it seems to be

And no less than it means to me.

Just essence clean.  My dirty fears... My purest means.

And all the things that form within my dreams.

My dearest ghetto.

You are THAT part of my mind which isn't rebel to the facts.

You are THAT part so unchanging,

That redundant meadow

Painted with the things I'm worth

And not the lies I've fabricated since my birth

The words that spawn a laminated earth

That I cannot set foot on.

So I'll cling to you always, and put on

Every outfit that looks good on... you.

The broken bottles on the soaking asphalt.

Dripping with the rain from every time I shed my weak disguise.

Exhausted from the lies...

Exhausted from the eyes that filter everything I live for.

Tiring disguise... When all is said and done, what do you claim?

What do I sin for?



Precious slums.

How I come back after betrayal

And make a home in you.

How you craft a portrayal

Of my inner zone so true...