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No sleep. No water. Dry mouth seems to be the onluy taste available. No reach or want for what is close. Only hardships are available. Thee isn't much around in this deserted place we call home.
Bus people really have a lot of time to think.. Weary, they are always on the brink of knowing what's it's all about. Bumping, heaving, sleeve-to-sleeving their way to work. Yearning to be back in bed, learning they are spiritually dead.. And all
What does it take to stay awake And not hate Every eye that passes by Makes me wonder if they try Or do they categorize My kind within wicked lies As if every time a brother dies
You came like storms in a drought. Perfectly wild. I come from where the sky is always yellow and the fruits grow upside down. Your soul in particular, like mangos, I steal a taste whenever I find time to browse.
Just yesterday, I abandoned my antisocial ways In exchange for a life of misery and failure This damn New York traffic keeps preventing me from acquiring any precious sleep
A city thats on the list for being one of the worse places to live You hear gunshots and police sirens every night,